Love After Love
by Quicksylverbtgh
Summary: Blaine wishes that he could describe the day he met Kurt as the best day of his life.  Unfortunately, the discovery that slushie-encrusted boxers chafe like a mother puts a damper on things.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Blaine wishes that he could describe the day he met Kurt as the best day of his life. Unfortunately, the discovery that slushie-encrusted boxers chafe like a mother puts a damper on things. An AU where Burt dies during "Grilled Cheesus", Kurt is left to fend for himself, and Blaine is a Warbler-in-exile.

**Rating**: PG-13 for some strong language and violence

**A/N**: This story was written for the Klaine Big Bang and could not have happened without a lot of help. If you like this story, go tell Electrictoes what a great beta job she did. She is the one to blame if this monster is at all coherent. While you're at it, check out the awesome soundtrack and cover art that Inferiarecoming put together. Thank you both. Ladies, you made this whole endeavor a hoot and a half.

The title comes from a Derek Walcott poem of the same name. Song titles are in italics since it was getting confusing trying to decipher song titles within dialogue. As always, I do not own the toys I am playing with and am not making a profit off of playing with them.

**Love After Love**

Blaine glared at the double-doors with his best haute stare. Rather than feeling emboldened, he found himself clutching the straps of his backpack tighter and trying to swallow past the dry tangle of his throat. This wasn't going to be like Grover T., he told himself; everything was going to be just fine. He took in a lungful of air and forced himself to drop his hands. He could do this. He nodded, pasted a big smile on his face, and tugged his vest back into place.

He was almost to the stairs when two mountains moved into place beside him. "You lost little boy? Cause the middle school is down the road."

Blaine winced, but laughed along with them. "Actually, today's my first day." He made a big show of pulling his schedule out of his bag. "Can you tell me where the guidance office is?"

"Sure," the larger of the two nodded, his eyes wide and his tone insincere. Blaine fought not to close his own eyes and tuck his head in. "We can show you a shortcut." A heavy hand bracketed each shoulder and tugged him away from the safety of the front doors.

Blaine nattered on, trying to draw out the moment. Eventually, the other boys started to look away. Blaine couldn't tell if they were scoping out a place to dump his body or if he was embarrassing them enough that they might let him go. Carefully, he reached into his bag, took out his phone and dialed himself.

"Oh," he jumped and pretended to check the number. "My dad," he whispered to his audience. "Hi, what's up?" He jerked his shoulders free and started to walk away. "Hold on a sec, Dad. I'll see you guys later. Thanks again!" He kept his phone to his ear until he was safely inside the school.

See, not so bad, he told himself as he slid his phone back in his bag. "I can totally do this." The smile stretched into a real one, full of teeth.

That's why it really hurt when he got a face full of cherry-flavored ice.

"Welcome to McKinley High, midget."

...

Blaine's first day was spent in a pink-tinged t-shirt and sticky underwear. His hair was curled free of its gel. The soles of his shoes caught at the floor in embarrassingly loud squeaks. And every single teacher made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself. Blaine had had nightmares like this, he was sure.

"Bonjour. Je m'appelle Blaine Anderson."

"Bonjour Blaine," a few dutiful students replied.

Madame Touton gestured towards an empty seat in front of one of the boys from this morning. He glanced around and found another empty seat next to the class sleeper. Blaine dropped his books, startling the other boy. He caught a flash of blue before the boy rolled his head in the other direction. Blaine glanced away and watched as the rest of the class quickly looked away. Weird.

"M. Hummel?"

"Oui," came the muttered reply.

"Un bon nuit?"

"Une bonne vie."

"M. Hummel," she chastised.

"Oui, Madame," the boy sighed in response and sat up.

Blaine risked a glance undercover of his bangs. "Burt" the boy's shirt read. It was a little big on him and well-worn. There were places where the collar had torn or a sleeve hem had unraveled, but the defects had been repaired with a delicate touch. Maybe it was a hand-me down, Blaine guessed. The boy's long, thin hands had dirt under the nails, but the nails were smooth and polished. He was sleeping in class, but when Madame asked for the homework, his was a neatly typed essay compared to the chicken scratched paragraphs of his peers. The contradictions were almost enough to make him forget about his clothing. Almost. If nothing else, he was glad that he didn't have to walk home later. Sugar-encrusted boxers chafed like a mother.

"Fuck ma vie," Blaine muttered to his desk. It was just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but he could have sworn he saw Hummel's lips twitch up in a wry smile. When he turned to look, it was gone, the other boy staring straight ahead. Blaine slumped down in his seat and spent the rest of French trying to unglue his sticky boxers from the inside of his thigh without simply reaching down and grabbing himself awkwardly.

...

It was while he was packing up for home that he glimpsed the final stage of torture a la McKinley. The halls felt suspiciously empty, the noise level lower than it had been the rest of the day. Blaine glanced around as the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and heard a loud clang and a startled cry.

He picked up his speed, shoving books into his backpack. It wasn't going to be fast enough. "Think, Blaine," he told himself. Desperately, he looked for a teacher or a small group. No one. What was the deal with this school?

Footsteps lumbered closer. Silently, he counted. A rush of air and a further drop in sound. He spun, ducking down as he went. A loud crash sounded above him. "Darn it, I'm such a klutz." He mimed picking up a book as he waited for the other boy to recover from his headlong collision with the locker, then tried to feign surprise at seeing the boy behind him.

"Oh my, are you okay?" He reached a hand up to touch a gash on the dazed boy's forehead.

The other boy jerked out of his reach. "Get off me you spic!"

Blaine couldn't help it. He started to laugh. It made the other kid's cheeks burn red, but Blaine couldn't stop. The stress of the day, the absurdity of everything, and now some kid was calling him a spic. He couldn't decide whether to be insulted or amused. On one hand, the boy was discriminating against not one, but two cultures. On the other hand, it was hard to feel threatened or hurt by this level of ignorance. It was perfect. It burned away any fear he felt, because really, there was no way that this was his life.

The other boy grabbed Blaine by his lapels and lifted him up. It just made Blaine laugh harder. "What is so fucking funny?"

"I'm…I'm Filipino," Blaine laughed. "Does anybody really do this kind of stuff anymore? '_What's so fucking funny?"_" he mimicked. Blaine couldn't breathe. "_What's so fucking funny, punk!_"

The other boy dropped him as if he was worried that the crazy was catching. "You better stop laughing, or I'll…" he raised his fist to back up his threat.

Blaine fought to push the laughter down and uncurl his smile. "You know," he interrupted in as serious a tone as he could manage. "Most bullies suffer from low self-esteem and they bully as a way to make themselves feel better. Do you want to talk about it?" He reached out a hand to squeeze the boy's shoulder.

"Don't touch me. I don't want your fucking faggy germs on me." The slur killed the effervescence bubbling up inside of him. The laughter dropped away. Instead, something darker rolled in to its place. Blaine nodded to himself. The normal restrictions need not apply.

"What's your name?"

No answer.

"Dan, then? May I call you, Dan? Let me school you on a few things. One, I believe the term you are looking for is 'homosexual.' Or perhaps 'gay.' I personally prefer 'gay' just because I'm generally a happy kind of a guy, you know?" He stepped a little closer to 'Dan the man' and fought down the crowing joy in his throat. The other boy swallowed when his back hit the lockers. "Secondly, Dan, I don't have cooties. I get my shots and everything. Don't you?" Blaine could have cheered to see someone so big try to shrink in on himself. This was what he had hoped for. When he had been a ghost in his own home, this was what he had wished for. He felt every inch of his skin now. There was nothing that anyone could do to him ever again. "Thirdly, you should really get that looked at." He reached up again to the gash on the other boy's forehead.

"Don't touch me," came the panicked response and suddenly he was on the ground and his head hurt and his back hurt and things weren't so funny anymore. He watched with disinterest as the other boy ran. Perfect, he told himself. Just perfect.

With a tired sigh, he pulled himself to his feet and finished getting his homework together. His jacket, zipped up, would cover the worst of the stains, he decided. At least he would be able to sneak in without worrying Grandma and Grandpa. A final adjustment to his backpack and he trudged out the door, his feet squeaking on the linoleum.

"That was so awesome," he heard a girl whisper to her neighbor. He spared her a small smile before ducking his head. It had been totally awesome, he told himself. He tried to recall that brief moment of triumph. He could use it as a touchstone tomorrow when, he was sure, all hell would break loose. At least, for once in his life, he hadn't been a coward. The smile stayed a little longer this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt tried to hurry past the choir room doors.

"You guys should have seen it. It was so cool," Tina was telling the group. "He totally schooled that hockey jerk."

Kurt shook his head and remembered the slightly hysterical laughter. Kurt had a feeling that the new kid knew exactly how screwed he was. If he had any energy left, he would have felt sorry for the other boy. Instead, he concentrated on making it to his car without running into Karofsky or his buddies. Kurt relaxed the hands that were clenching at his shirt hem; he was going to tear the seam again at this rate.

"Kurt?" he heard Miss Pillsbury call as he passed her office. He ignored her and walked faster. The busybody had been trying to corner him for weeks, but he had managed to evade her so far. It helped that she avoided confrontation like the plague and probably wouldn't force the issue unless someone else made her.

Kurt hung a hard left at the gym doors, catching a glimpse of red skirt and a shoe flying over someone's head. "Sloppy!" he heard Coach Sylvester screaming into her megaphone. Coach Sylvester had tried to corner him too, and had been slightly more successful, but then Becky had come running in with an emergency and Kurt had ducked out while Coach was distracted. She hadn't tried again, but Kurt figured that was mainly because he had been successfully avoiding her.

Another right at the art room and he was slamming through the metal doors and into the side lot. This was technically the teachers' lot. Kurt, however, was pretty good with Photoshop and a little bit of cardboard. His parking permit looked just like any of the others. He didn't know if any of the teachers had caught on yet; he didn't really care, so long as they let him get away with it. It was the benefit of being an orphan, he guessed. Nobody wanted to confront him on his bad behavior for fear his delicate disposition would crumble under the additional stress. If only.

He made it to his car and to the garage with time to spare. He felt his shoulders unknot a bit just to know that he was in a safer space with Jake to watch his back. He waved hi, before ducking into his dad's old office. He washed up in the sink and carefully hung up his clothes. He slipped into a pair of oil-stained cover-alls and then set the coffee to boil. While he waited for the machine to kick into gear, he grabbed his salad mix out of the mini-fridge and quickly swallowed a few bites. A low gurgling sound from his stomach told him he was done, so he stowed the rest back in the fridge and grabbed himself a cup of office sludge.

"What have we got today?" Kurt asked Jake who was pouring over the appointment book.

"Two tune-ups and a rotation," Jake peered over his nose at him. "Which do you want?"

"I can take the tune-ups," Kurt volunteered. He could never quite get the bolts off of some of the tires. Years of rust and brake dust made them stick like they had been glued on.

"Sounds good." Jake turned back to the books, and turned up the garage stereo. "Little pink houses," Kurt was soon growling along with the music. He wished Jake would stop playing it out of some twisted sense of loyalty to his dad. "Remember how much your dad loved this song?" Jake had prompted Kurt the first time he had played the record. _All it did for Kurt was remind him of a time when he thought his dad could never feel further away. _

Together, they finished five other jobs and soon it was time to close up shop for the night. "You sure you don't me to stay?" Jake asked Kurt; it was part of their nightly ritual.

"I'll be fine," Kurt assured him, just like he did every night.

He locked the door after Jake, cut the power to the outside sign and the inside garage area and made his way to the back office. He unfolded the cot hidden behind an old tin gas station sign. His pillow was pulled out of the desk drawer, and a blanket from a box marked 'alternators'. He washed his hands diligently in the lone sink before setting his phone's alarm and stripping down to his boxers. He hit the lights and climbed into bed. It wasn't hard to fall asleep when he was this tired. A few deep breaths and he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Mercedes watched as Kurt snuck into class while the teacher's back was turned. He spared a quick glance around the room for an open chair, but the only spot was next to Mercedes herself. With a jerk of his head, he turned and sat at one of the long tables that held the computers. Mercedes turned away so he wouldn't see her compulsively swallowing her tears down. Ever since that day last Fall… she tried pinching her leg to stop the loop her mind was dropping into, but it didn't work.

...

The room around them was quiet. The machines had been turned off, the get-well flowers and balloons distributed to other patients. Someone had even been thoughtful enough to open the window. The faint bite of Winter in the air seemed to wrap around the only two people in the room.

Mercedes reached out helplessly, but stopped herself from connecting with Kurt's shoulder. Her mind stumbled over words that sounded too trite, that sounded too calm, that sounded too sincere. How did she console someone who repeatedly and vehemently rejected sympathy? She flailed and winced as the passing seconds grew longer and more uncomfortable. "God must have a plan, and your dad is…" she finally stuttered out the well-worn words of her pastor.

Kurt spun so fast on her that Mercedes was forced to step back. His eyes were red, the bags underneath them swollen and bruised, but the look he shot her was the look he reserved for jocks and meatheads. "If you finish that sentence..."

"Kurt, I'm just trying-"

"To insinuate that my dad is better off without me? That it was in the plan of some all-mighty being with a stick up his ass to orphan a teenager? Does that make _you_ feel better?"

Mercedes felt her stomach turn over even as her own not inconsiderable temper rose. "You are not being rational about this, babe. Please, just let me help you."

Kurt recoiled as if she had hit him. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on." And as she watched, he deliberately took his phone from his bag and deleted her contact information. "Do me a favor. Don't talk to me tomorrow when we see each other at school. Or the next day."

"You don't mean that," she whispered to his back. Her only answer was the gunfire crack of his heeled boots against the hospital's linoleum.

...

Mercedes pinched her thigh harder, finally breaking through the haze of memory. "Mr. Humphries? Can I use the bathroom pass, please?" He waved a hand in her vague direction. She made a point of staring straight ahead as she walked out the door.

Mercedes stretched her bathroom break out to ten minutes before she decided that even Mr. Humphries would notice she was gone. A good wash of the hands, a quick flick of her hair, and she was ready to go. She flung the door open, trying to get rid of some leftover anger and smiled when she heard it crack against the tile. With a little more sass in her step, she turned the corner to the social studies wing.

And promptly collided with someone running the other way.

The collision knocked them both to the ground. Books and papers flew outward in a sweeping arch. It took her more than a moment to make her lungs work again. When she could spare a thought for something besides breathing, she looked over to what had hit her.

"Walk much?" she joked.

"It's a free hallway," he shot back.

"Yes." She had no clue what this boy was on about. But Mama didn't raise her to be rude, she reminded herself, especially to a new kid. With a sigh, she started to pick up his supplies. He watched her for a moment before joining in.

"Thank you," he told her when she handed everything back.

"You're welcome," she responded tartly, still a little miffed about earlier.

"I'm Blaine," he tried again.

"Mercedes."

"Thanks again, Mercedes," he smiled tightly. "Sorry about knocking into you."

"Likewise."

"And I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier."

When she didn't say anything, he took a sudden interest in his feet. "Right, I'll just get back to class."

She blamed it on the way he walked with his head down. The boy looked like someone had put water in his cereal. "Blaine?"

"Yeah?" he turned back.

"Have a better day."

"Your lips to the Fates' ears," he smiled wanly back at her. "You too."

Mercedes smiled to herself, finally feeling like the dead weight in her chest was shifting. Maybe she'd invite him to their table for lunch.

...

Mr. Schue smiled to see Mercedes helping the new kid. It seemed like the boy had had a rough couple of days. It was nice to see one of his own kids making the transition a little easier for the newbie. As the curly-haired youth approached, Will stood up from his lean against the doorframe.

"Blaine," he greeted warmly, a hand extended.

A warm hand with familiar calluses gave it a firm shake. "Guitar?" he asked.

The boy nodded in surprise.

"Guitar, piano…Anything else?" Will teased.

"Violin," he blushed.

"We're lucky to have you then." He gestured Blaine through the open doorway. "Let's hear what you can do."

He took a seat at his own stool and watched as Blaine got settled. "Any requests?"

"How about _Piano Man_?" They both laughed. Blaine took a breath, and with a flourish, tapped out a rather jaunty, jazzy version of the familiar tune.

"Something more current?"

Blaine launched into Pink's _Perfect_.

"Broadway?"

_Anything You Can Do_ echoed from the piano.

Will clapped, coming over to join the young man. "I think this is going to work out great for both of us. I know Brad will be glad to finally be able to get his surgery."

"When do I start?"

Will thought for a moment. "I'm going to have you start shadowing Brad as soon as possible. Can you come in Tuesday after school?"

"That would be great, Mr. Schuester."

He clasped a hand on the boy's shoulder, not missing the shudder that ran through him. He dropped his hand and coughed. "I can't pay you much."

"Hey," Blaine shrugged, taking a step away. "It beats working at McDonald's, and I know my grandparents will appreciate the little extra. Have a good day, sir."

Will frowned, sensing the beginning of a story, but the boy was already out the door and on his way.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaine hunched a little further down at his table in the corner and tucked the spring into his pocket. He was trying a grand experiment today. For the first time this week, he was eating lunch in the cafeteria. Well, eating was a relative word. His stomach was bubbling in a way that meant the greasy hamburger in front of him would do an encore performance if he tried to eat it. He concentrated instead on reading his history notes and glancing up every once in a while to check on the status of the slushie machine. The "Out of Order" sign and the still rotor had survived detection so far, he could tell. The cherry syrup had floated to the top and ice was slowly leaking out the spout. He wondered how long it would take the lunch ladies to notice the damage and fix it. He hoped they had to special order the replacement parts.

A shadow approached his table, and, like a turtle, Blaine snapped back into himself, hunched over his homework.

"Blaine, right?"

Blaine looked up cautiously. It was the loud girl from the hallway earlier. "Hi." He glanced around looking for the snickering jock who was setting him up again.

"Mercedes, remember?"

"Of course," he smiled tightly in response. Manners, he told himself. "Sorry again about earlier."

"You already apologized."

"I was pretty rude," he made one more sweep of the cafeteria, but couldn't find that face.

"Do you not have anybody to eat with?" Mercedes sat down without an invitation.

"I just have a lot of homework to catch up on. Transferring mid-year screwed a lot of things up."

"Oh." They spent an awkward minute listening to the boys at the next table describe the awesome powers of the newest expansion pack for World of Warcraft. "So, you don't want to come sit with me and my friends?" She waved at a table near the big double doors.

Blaine rammed a piece of rubbery hamburger into his mouth to stop the "Please, yes, and thank you!" that burbbled up his throat. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Excellent. I'll introduce you to everybody." She was up and dragging him in her wake before he could grab his lunch. No loss there, he thought, the mad giggles rising to the surface again. She pushed him to the front, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in greeting. It was a little depressing that he was only half an inch taller and she could do so easily. He tugged at an errant curl and wished he had made the effort to gel them back today.

"This is Blaine," Mercedes was telling them. "He likes to play bumper cars in the hallways. Blaine," she pointed to each person in succession. "This is Tina, Mike, Sam, Rachel, and Finn."

"If I see you later, I'll introduce you to everyone else," Mercedes assured him. "Have a seat."

"Where's your lunch, man?" The tall kid asked. Finn, Blaine reminded himself.

Blaine waved a hand in the general direction of his former table.

"I'm sorry," Mercedes apologized. "I'll go get it."

She stood up, only to watch one of the jocks upend a coke over it. "Never mind," he tugged her back down into her seat. "It wasn't worth eating."

She laughed. "You got that right. I wonder how many cases of food poisoning can be blamed on this place."

He laughed along with the rest and felt his spine relax a little. "Too bad the slushie machine couldn't stay broken longer."

Sam shrugged. "It was a good try, rookie."

Blaine spluttered out a protest, but he could tell no one believed him. "What gave me away?"

"All of the new kids try it, including me," Sam smirked. "It usually only lasts about a day before the lunch ladies figure out the sabotage."

"Great. There goes plan A," Blaine tried to smile brightly.

The smallest girl, Rachel, pushed a piece of paper in front of him. "My name, as Mercedes told you, is Rachel Berry. I sing lead in our glee club and I know everything there is to know about McKinley. I would be happy to assist your acclamation to our lovely school." Blaine could see the others' rolling their eyes in the background. "To start with, here is a survival guide for McKinley's lower class. I wrote it on recycled toilet paper so it would be easier to swallow if it was intercepted." Her smile was full of big, white teeth and it frightened him a little.

"I wanted to tell you in English," Tina (he guessed she had some Korean heritage) spoke up next. "That was awesome, how you handled Connor."

"Connor?"

"The kid who tried to locker-slam you on your first day here."

"Oh…Thanks."

"Tina," she reminded him with a smile. "You should totally join the Pan-Asian Society." The taller boy next to her nodded. He held out a hand. "Mike."

Finn laughed, despite the massive amount of food crammed in his mouth. "He's not Pan-Asian, or whatever."

"I'm half-Filipino, actually," Blaine corrected. When only Tina and Mike nodded in understanding, he tried to explain. "It's a small series of islands in the Pacific. Near China. We gained independence from America not too long ago?" He hated the way his voice made it into a question, but not as much as he hated the still blank looks. What was with this school?

"Never mind that," the bossier brunette jumped in. "The important question is can you sing?"

The question left Blaine flatfooted for a moment. He couldn't remember the last time he had sung. Certainly, it was before the move. Last summer, maybe? Probably not; Dad hadn't approved of Blaine's interest in singing and Blaine had been going out of his way to appease his dad all summer. "Violin, piano, a good mind, these are talents a man of breeding cultivates," Blaine could recite the lecture from memory. Singing Top 40 tunes in a show choir was entirely too low-brow for an Anderson. Blaine opened his mouth to respond, but Rachel interrupted.

"It's okay," she patted his hand. "Not everyone was born with my amazing talent."

"Or her Godzilla-sized ego," Mercedes muttered in an aside to Blaine. Blaine's mind flashed to the Barbara Streisand-bot episode of _South Park_ and he started to lose it. After a few minutes, everyone was starting to look at him funny, so he tried to explain. "Cartman," he breathed. "Not the nose." Sam immediately caught on, followed by Finn. They tried to calm down, but it was no good. One of the boys would make a face and they would all lose it again.

"What is so funny?" Rachel demanded and Blaine winced at the hurt he could hear in her voice.

Finn slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a one-armed hug. "You've seen that episode. Remember? They blew up Barbara because she was terrorizing the town."

"They blew up Barbara?" Rachel's voice went screaming into her upper ranges. Yup, definitely a soprano. "Of all the…How could anyone be so barbaric? Barbara is a goddess," and she continued on in the same vein for the last fifteen minutes of lunch.

When the bell rang, Blaine walked with the group to their lockers and they only parted ways when they reached his sixth hour French class. The group was loud and obnoxious, prone to breaking into song at random moments, and Blaine had been touched more than he had been in his entire life. And yet, the sudden quiet of the French classroom was no comfort. It made him want to hide in his hoodie until class was over and he could meet the others by their lockers.

"Have you seen it yet?" The girl in front of him turned around.

He blinked in response. Really, he felt that was about as intelligent an answer as she was bound to get from him today.

"Oh, you're new. You don't know yet." She thrust a printout in front of him. "Enjoy!"

The piece of paper looked like a screen capture of an on-line article.

_"Let the Gay Orgies Commence: Former Gleek's Home Now Open for Business"_

_Kurt Hummel, poster boy for gender-neutral club kids, is now an emancipated minor. After the untimely death of his father earlier this year, Hummel quickly filed for his freedom. Little Orphan Hummel insists it is simply to maintain control of his dad's business and avoid the foster system. This intrepid reporter can only guess at the real reason. It might have something to do with the six-foot football-playing closet case seen lurking outside of the Hummel residence last week. Party favors, anyone?_

_New week: Who Brittany has banged twice. You know you want to know!_

_-Jewfro at Large_

As he was finishing reading, a shadow fell over his desk. "You shouldn't bother with that trash," a high clear voice told him.

He heard the girl in front of him sniff in disdain as he looked up and then up some more to meet the speaker's eye. "Umm, hi."

"Jacob's just trying to stir up trouble. If he isn't lying outright, he's trying to insinuate something dirty enough to impress Larry Flint,"

Blaine was sure that this was a very important conversation, but a large part of him was still stuck on "legs" and "voice" and wouldn't be checking back in anytime soon.

Blaine offered up the paper in supplication and Hummel pinched it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. The other boy threw it in the garbage before stealing some sanitizer from Madame's desk and dousing his hands with liquid. He reclaimed the seat next to Blaine and that seemed to be the end of their interaction, at least in Hummel's mind. Blaine's big brain was finally back on-line and he cast desperately about for some kind of topic to keep the moment going.

"Do you know the kid who wrote the article?"

That stupid girl in front of him was giggling.

"Eavesdrop much?" Hummel shot at her back. The girl stiffened and deliberately turned to her neighbor to start a very loud conversation about boys' lacrosse uniforms. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"The boy," Blaine stuttered. "Who wrote the article. This Jacob. Do you know him?"

"Not really." The silence grew awkward after only a minute.

"I'm Blaine, by the way," he held a hand out to shake Hummel's.

Hummel left him hanging. "I remember."

"We haven't been formally introduced. You are?" he prompted. He was sure he had had less stilted conversations with his dentist.

"Gay. You should stop talking to me before you catch it," Kurt flipped open a textbook and turned away.

"That's your name?" Blaine tried to tease. No response. "I asked…"

"Were you raised by wolves? Can you not take a hint?" Blaine flinched back from the intensity of that blue-green stare. "Are you really that desperate for a friend that you would try to chat me up?"

"No…I mean, not that you aren't…I just," Blaine forced himself to take a breath even as he felt the heat rising in his face. "Me too," he finished lamely.

"Bonjour tout le monde!" Madame interrupted.

"Bonjour Madame," came the weak reply.

Blaine spent the rest of the lesson focused intently on his unfinished calculus homework. He didn't look at Hummel once (even if he could still feel that steely gaze skimming the back of his neck like a caress). He was more surprised than anyone when Hummel bumped into him on their way out of class.

"Kurt," the boy held his hand out, roughly shaking Blaine's once before striding off down the hallway.

"Kurt," Blaine rolled the name around in his mouth a few times. It was perfect, Blaine thought with a smile. The person behind him shoved past him, but he didn't care enough to object. He pulled his backpack strap up higher on his shoulder and tried to cobble some kind of coherent thought together. "Kurt and Blaine," he liked the sound of it, a lot. He did a quick little two-step and slide. Life could be good, he decided as he fought his way through the crowd to his next class.

A sudden and violent push into the wall interrupted his thoughts. Screw this, Blaine thought. He wasn't going to let McKinley ruin this moment for him. Better to skip than wonder what fresh horror was waiting for him around the corner. Maybe the nurse would let him sleep in her office again. It wasn't like he had finished the homework anyway. He headed off in that direction.


	5. Chapter 5

"Alone again, Hummel?" A pair of beefy arms tightened around Kurt's middle and lifted him into the air. Kurt pushed at the arms holding him, trying to gain some space between himself and the body behind him.

"I will scream fire if you don't stop touching me."

Karofsky simply locked his arms more firmly around Kurt's waist and moved them both into the locker room. Kurt wheezed as the arms around his middle tightened. It was happening again. Despite moving his car to the teacher's lot, despite never eating lunch in the cafeteria, despite a carefully planned route to his classes through full hallways, Karofsky had gotten to him time and again. The boy would pull him into an empty classroom or shove him into a storage closet and proceed to make thinly veiled threats and terrifyingly suggestive comments. Nothing he did seemed to work and the attacks were getting progressively worse in the weeks since, well, since Karofsky knew Kurt was on his own. Nothing stopped him. If he could have, Kurt would have taken ten perfectly trimmed fingernails to Karofsky's face out of pure frustration. Unfortunately, his hands were trapped at his sides. Lights were twinkling in his peripheral vision when Kurt hauled his leg up and then back for a vicious kick to the kneecap. Karofsky dropped Kurt before he could connect.

Kurt landed with a sickening thud on his hands and knees, his bad knee twinging in warning. He tried to stand up, but a kick sent him sprawling. His wrist was caught underneath him and he knocked his chin on the floor. Only instinct saved him from biting his tongue too. Kurt tried again to stand and Karofsky knocked his head against the tiles. A follow-up kick to the stomach drove the breath and the fight out of him.

"We can keep doing this if you want," Karofsky taunted.

"Or?" Kurt rolled gingerly onto his back. A touch to the forehead revealed no gaping head wound, but even that tiny bit of pressure made his wrist ache. Kurt hoped it was just a sprain.

"You can stop playing hard to get and give me what I came for."

A hand grabbed hurt's sore wrist and used it to yank him to his feet. Another hand grabbed hold of his waistband and reeled him closer.

"I am sure I have nothing for you," Kurt tried to sniff disdainfully, but his mind was too focused on inane facts, like when eighth hour ended (thirty minutes from now) and Kurt's own spotty attendance record of late. No one would miss him, he realized.

The hand at his waist jerked him forward again and Kurt landed on top of Karofsky, his legs straddling the other boy's thigh. "You just can't keep your hands off me," Karofsky chuckled. He pulled Kurt's head back with a fistful of his hair and smiled. "Look at you." Karofsky ran his index finger down the side of Kurt's face and over his bottom lip. Kurt tried to pull away from the invasion, his neck muscles straining against the grip in his hair. "You would let me do anything."

Karofsky leaned in slowly, his head tilting and his eyes slipping closed like there was music queuing for a classic Hollywood slow-mo screen kiss. Kurt, pushing as hard as he could at Karofsky's chest, screamed in his face.

Karofsky punched him in the stomach.

"Shut up," he hissed. When Kurt could only gasp in reply, Karofsky shook him again. "Shut up." Kurt could hear footsteps now and someone whistling "Down in Dixie". A jangle of keys meant a janitor or the new football coach. Kurt tried to take a deep breath so he could scream again.

Karofsky wrapped a hand over Kurt's mouth and pinned him to the locker with his body. Kurt shoved desperately against the bigger boy; help was almost here. "Shut up," Karofsky hissed. He wrenched hard on Kurt's sore wrist when he tried to evade Karofsky's grip. Karofsky bounced Kurt's head off of the metal lockers for good measure. "Why are you so stupid?" Kurt wanted to yell back, but his body felt too large for him to control, a marionette with no strings. His head was lolling back on his shoulders, giving him a perfect view of the ceiling. He stared at the "Puckzilla ATE Tokyo" graffiti, wondering in detached fascination how one defaced a ceiling and distantly aware that Karofsky was shaking him by the shoulders. He could feel Karofsky's hot breath in his ear, but the words were lost on him. The whistling came back, the sound of jangling keys along with it. It was very pretty, Kurt decided. Nicely in tune. But then Karofsky was breaking Kurt's concentration and shoving him again, this time into a closet, and suddenly Kurt was lying on a pile of dirty, damp towels. Kurt heard the click of the lock engaging behind him.

He listened as the other boy ran out of the locker room, then leaned back. The world was spinning in lazy circles around him, but that was okay. He just needed a minute and then he would get up. He wanted to rip at the places where his skin still crawled, but instead, he concentrated on his breathing. One, two, three breaths in; one, two, three breaths out. Repeat. In a few moments, he would get up, clean himself off, and go to work. In just a minute. Footsteps paced past the door, whistling interspersed with lists, lyrics, and the sounds of things being dragged across the floor. Kurt stayed focused. Breathe. Repeat. Breathe. Repeat.

He lost track of his repetitions after that. The only thing that mattered was that it was quiet and he was safe. Breathe in, he told himself. Breathe out.

He heard a distant chiming and ignored it. A small part of his brain was urging him to move, but he needed just a moment to rest. He was safe. It would be okay. Just a moment.

The locker room doors slammed open and Kurt flinched, burrowing deeper into the towel pile. He could hear Coach Bieste bellowing directions from her office and the duller cracks of lockers being thrown open.

He had to get out of here. They'd kill him if they found him here. They would accuse him of trying to spy on them or worse. He curled up, rigid in fear, as he listened to the boys suit up for practice.

Eventually they all left. Kurt wasted no time opening the door (thank Gaga that Karofsky wasn't the sharpest tool and hadn't realized fail-safes made it impossible to lock someone inside). Silently, he crept towards the door and breathed a sigh of relief when his hand touched the handle.

"Kurt?"

Kurt didn't recognize the voice in his panic to escape. He jerked open the door and ran until he reached the main hallway. He forced himself to slow then, counting steps as a way to pace himself. Teachers would notice a running student, even if it was after school. He shot a wild glance around to see if anyone had noticed, but the hallways were strangely quiet. Kurt put on an extra burst of speed and was nearly flying when he slammed through the last set of double doors and into fresh air.

Finally, he would be safe. He reached for his messenger bag and his car keys…and hit empty space.

"No," he moaned. They were in his locker at the front of the school. He would have to walk around the building, past the practice field, to reach the main entrance and the only set of unlocked doors.

The air wheezed from his lungs and he sunk to the pavement, his frantic energy of a moment before, gone. This might be his limit, Kurt mused. He might be done. He stared ahead at the falling sun and wished that it would fall on him. Or that an out-of-control minivan would careen around the corner and run him down. Maybe Karofsky had given him a major concussion and soon Kurt would simply slip into a deep sleep and never wake up. He touched his head to check on his injury and discovered, that it was probably only a minor concussion. He recognized the signs well enough. He curled over his knees so he could lay his throbbing head on the cooler pavement. Really, he sighed, what he wanted was to call his dad.

A body crouched next to him, but Kurt ignored them. If it was Karofsky, well, it was better to get this over with. A teacher or another student would be harder to get rid of, but really, when had anyone ever stopped and checked on him before?  
>"Kurt?" That wasn't Karofsky. "You with me buddy?"<p>

He couldn't help himself. He turned to see if someone was really there. It was that new kid. "Sam?"

"That's my name," the other boy grinned. "Who'd you head-butt?" Sam reached a hand out to get a better look and Kurt jerked away.

"Nobody," Kurt tried to smile back, but it felt strained, so he stopped.

"Was 'Nobody' in the locker room, 'cause you ran out of there pretty fast."

"I'm fine," Kurt evaded and tried to stand.

"Wasn't really the question, dude." Sam grabbed his elbow and pulled him the rest of the way up. They watched each other in silence. It was a Mexican stand-off of the worst sort. Sam finally broke the silence, handing him a crumpled Kleenex from his jeans pocket. "Your forehead is bleeding, your wrist is jacked up." Kurt looked down, surprised to see a ring of bruises around his wrist. "And 'Nobody' got your knee pretty good too, looks like."

Kurt cursed when he saw the tear in his only good pair of jeans left. "I fell," Kurt tried to explain lamely.

"I'm sure you did. It's usually what happens when someone pushes you."

"Don't," Kurt begged quietly. "It's not worth making an issue out of it."

Sam opened his mouth as if to keep the argument going, but Kurt walked away.

"Where are you going?" Sam called after him.

"My locker."

Footsteps jogged to catch up with him. "I'll walk with you."

"I don't need _your_ protection."

"Okay," Sam held his hands up in appeasement. "I was just thinking, you know, my mom's a nurse. If you wanted, she could take a look at your wrist, because, well, someone should."

Kurt tucked the offending appendage under his other arm.

"C'mon, we'll get your stuff and then I can drive you back here. We'll pick up your car and you can follow me to my place. You can leave whenever you want."

"You have football practice," Kurt reminded him flatly.

"Bieste will understand," Sam was almost positive. Besides, his shoulder was still messed up. It wasn't like he would be doing anything besides giving moral support anyway.

"You're sure she won't mind?"

"Nah, my mom's cool," Sam deliberately misunderstood. "She'll just be glad to see proof that I have real friends."

"Sam…"

Sam waved him off. "With the move, she worries a little. That's all."

There was another lull until they reached Kurt's locker. Kurt himself moved quickly, grabbing his psychology, English, and European history texts.

"A little light reading?" Sam joked.

"I have a lot of make-up work," Kurt didn't feel the need to elaborate.

"Oh, then I guess that won't work." Sam turned to glance down the hallway, and Kurt couldn't see his face.

"What won't?"

"Well, I was kinda hopin'…You're in Accelerated English, right? That's what Quinn told me, anyway."

"Yes…?"

"So you know lots about proofreading and grammar and stuff, right?"

"Sure."

"I've been meaning to ask you if you could help me with some of my English essays. I'm dyslexic, you know, and it makes spelling really hard, and I'm supposed to get more drafts so I can fix errors like spelling, but I don't think my teacher knows that or read my IEP because she keeps taking a ton of points off for it even though she isn't supposed to. I'm not stupid," Sam stressed. "It's just…It's just harder, for me."

"Who is your teacher?"

"Mrs. Graham."

"Yeah, she is a bit of a grammar Nazi. Did you talk to her about your…?" Kurt waved his hand vaguely, unable to remember the word Sam had used.

"IEP. Not really. Some teachers get weird about it," Sam confided. "They think the plans are just silly, or that I'm trying to cheat, or that I'm just lazy and don't really need the extra accommodations." Sam shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder and reached out to take Kurt's as well. Carrying both, he led the way to his car.

"Talk to Ms. Pillsbury. Let her explain."

"Yeah, maybe." They made their way to Sam's car without incident. While Sam drove them back to the teachers' lot, Kurt made a quick call to Jake, explaining the situation.

"Take the night off," Jake told him. "I'll lock up."

Kurt thanked him and hung up. He was going to have some time to kill until Jake closed shop tonight. Maybe he would hit the library after Sam's.

"Your car, sir," Sam pulled up next to the Navigator, breaking Kurt free from his thoughts. "I'll see you in a few."

Kurt made quick work of unlocking his car and settling in. As soon as he turned the ignition key, music began blasting. "Suddenly Seymour is standing beside you," Kurt sang along, even as he pulled out and behind Sam. He knew something would happen, Kurt was sure. Karofsky would get to Sam, or Sam would disappear as soon as he had gotten what he wanted. For now, though, Kurt was determined not to ruin the one good thing that had happened today. An image of green-brown eyes and a head of curls and solid, strong-looking hands flashed before his eyes. He dismissed them. Something like that would be too big a complication to deal with right now. Besides, the new kid didn't need the extra help in becoming a social pariah. He let himself think one more time about those gorgeous green eyes ("Me too," he heard) and then set the image aside. There was no use dwelling on the impossible.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam nudged Kurt towards the kitchen and went in search of his mom. He found her in Stacy's room, folding laundry. She was on the phone, however, and held up a finger to ask him to wait.

Okay then, Sam decided. He took a moment to check his phone. Crap. Three missed calls from the Bieste. Not good. He probably should have told her what was going on, but he hadn't wanted Kurt anywhere near Karofsky. "Nobody" his ass. He'd watched every day on the way to math as that lumberjack shouldered the smaller boy off his feet and no one did anything. It was this, more than anything, that had lit a fire under Sam's own campaign to be part of the in-crowd. He was not going to end up like Kurt. So, while it killed him inside, Sam also did nothing. He couldn't afford to get involved, especially not for Kurt. No other jock focused on Kurt like Karofsky seemed to either. Kurt was Karofsky's favorite. If Sam tried to interfere, Karofsky would end him, pure and simple. Sam spared a sideways glance for his mother. She would have kicked his behind if she knew what was going on. The only thing he could safely do for Kurt was learn the kid's real name. "Fairy" and "fag" may be what the jocks called him, but Sam needed to know the name of his sacrificial lamb. It was only right.

Sam took a deep breath and tried to shake off the guilt that had settled on his shoulders like a weight. He was doing something now, he told himself, and punched in the numbers for Coach Bieste.

"Hey Coach."

"Where are you? I expect all of my players to be in the field by four, injured or not."

"I'm helping a friend."

"Does this friend have a name?"

"Kurt Hummel, ma'am."

"Do you boys need help?"

"We're okay," His mother's head shot up. "What's going on?" she mouthed. Sam held up his own finger.

"We're at my house and my mom is here."

"What happened?"

"Judy, I've got to go," he heard his mom say.

"I'm not sure," he told Coach. He related what he had seen: Kurt creeping out of the closet like he was afraid of being caught, running when Sam said his name, finding him on the ground outside, unresponsive. "It took me awhile to get his attention. He was kinda out of it."

"Is he hurt?"

"Maybe? My mom's a nurse. She's going to take a look at him."

"What did he say happened?" Sam heard the background noises fade away. Bieste must have gone inside.

"He fell, but that's complete bull…baloney," Sam edited at the last second. His mom still cuffed him upside the head for it.

"Have you seen anyone messing with him?"

"Just Karofsky. Locker checks, slushie facials, the usual." A part of him cringed at the casual way he was breaking the unspoken school rule – never, ever involve adults. "Snitches get stitches," he remembered people saying at his old school. The rest of him told it to shut the hell up. He was done being a coward.

"The usual?" he heard Mom and the Bieste echo.

"You boys come see me tomorrow before school."

"Yes ma'am. Have a good night."

"Night."

His mom rounded on him as soon as he was off the phone. "Are you okay, Sam?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

His mom didn't seem especially happy about his continued health. She crossed her arms tightly and sat next to him on Kerry's bed.

"Did you boys get in a fight?"

"I didn't. I didn't, Mom. I swear."

She sniffed in reply, but let it go. "Kurt looks like he was slaughtered though."

She uncurled finally, patting his leg. "Well, I better go see if I can help."

Sam started to follow her, but she cut him off. "Hon, why don't you finish the laundry while I chat with your friend."

"But, Mom…"

"But nothing. Your friend might not want to talk about some of this in front of you."

"I'll take my time," Sam promised.

Sam's mom walked back to him then, pulling his head down so she could kiss his forehead. "You did good today, kiddo."

"Thanks, Mom."

He listened as his mom greeted Kurt. When, after a few moments, no one screamed his name or ran for the door, Sam assumed his mom had things well in hand. It wasn't until he had finished in Kerry's room and was plodding through his English essay that his mom asked him to come downstairs.

"Kurt is going to the hospital," his mom announced in hushed tones. "He needs some x-rays, and we need to document his injuries."

"What's wrong with him?" Sam turned to watch the boy dozing on the couch. Mom had propped up Kurt's bad wrist and leg on pillows and placed ice packs on each, as well as on his forehead.

"Have you met this boy's parents?" she asked.

"Um, honestly? I think they're both dead. Why?" His mom was starting to freak him out.

"Who's responsible for him, then?" she hissed.

"Mom, I don't know. I mean, I've barely talked to the guy, except in gym or biology. The guys mentioned him once or twice," he didn't mention what they said about him. "I think he used to be in Glee. And I've seen Karofsky giving him a hard time, but that's all I know. Sorry."

"I am so glad your father and the twins are gone this week."

"Mom, tell me what's wrong."

She stopped pacing and stared at him a moment as if trying to make a decision. Finally, she pulled him down into one of the kitchen chairs, sat next to him, and leaned in. "You cannot tell anyone about this, okay?"

"Yeah, Mom. Of course." When she stared him down, he added, "I promise."

"I think your friend is being abused."

"What?"

"He has bruises on his back that are old and layered, one over the other."

"Those could be from the locker checks." He mimed shoving someone hard when his mother raised her eyebrow in question.

"Have you ever been…?"

"Nah," Sam drawled. "Benefit of being a jock and a football stud. No ritual humiliation."

His mother rolled her eyes at the "football stud" comment.

"He also is seriously underweight. I could count his ribs." For a moment, Sam felt the tiniest sliver of jealousy. He had to work hard to be as slim as he was.

"So what can we do?"

Like I said. We'll take him to the hospital, get him checked out, and go from there."

"And then what?"

"It depends on what we find, honey."

"He could stay here, right?"

"Sam, I don't know if that is such a good idea."

"C'mon, Mom. You said it yourself, he needs help. We can help. We have plenty of room."

"Sam," she cut him off. "I don't want to promise anything when we don't know what is going to happen. We also need to talk to your father before we make any big decisions, okay?"

"Yeah, Mom," but he didn't have to like it. He made a promise to the boy sleeping on the sofa. Never again. Sam had his back, no matter what. He and his mom shared a look. Sam had a funny feeling that his mother had made a similar promise. His mom teared up, then. She raised a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes.

"Mom," he whined.

"Well, you need a hair cut," she shot back with a watery grin. It was a comfortable script for them. "Do you want me to do it?"

He stood up and then pulled her to her feet. "No. After the bowl cut of '95, you will never touch my hair again."

"One small bald spot." They continued the playful bickering even as they woke Kurt and bundled him into Sam's car. It was one of the few bright spots of the evening.


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine was nervous, no use denying it. His first day of Glee practice was upon him. He thought that knowing a few of the kids would make him less nervous, but if anything, he felt even more pressure to impress. He tried to stand by the piano and exude confidence. "Back straight, chin up, arms to the side," he reminded himself. "They will love you," Wes had reassured him last night. Blaine tried to hold onto those words as people filed in.

"Blaine!" he heard several people call, and his smile grew a little bigger, a little more natural.

Rachel spun on Mr. Schuester and bombarded him with questions as soon as she noticed Blaine by the piano.

"Why is he here, Mr. Schue? We are too close to Sectionals to try to incorporate new voices. Besides, Blaine already told us he can't sing."

"Calm down, Rachel. Blaine's our new piano man, while Brad is out. Although, can you sing Blaine? I never asked."

"I was in this acappella group for a while," Blaine shrugged. He thought it better not to mention that the Warblers had planned to make him lead soloist this year. He reminded himself that he was completely happy that David had received that honor in his absence.

"You lied to me?" Rachel accused.

"You didn't give me a chance to respond," Blaine said with a smile to soften the criticism. The rest of the group laughed as Rachel sat down in a huff. Blaine could feel his shoulders loosening. Maybe this would be alright.

"What's your range?"

"Alto-tenor, mostly."

"I'm never going to get a solo again," he heard someone in the back mutter.

"Would you sing us something?"

And with those words, Blaine's mind went blank. Every song he'd ever learned, completely erased from memory. "Any requests?" he tried to stall for time.

"Just show us what you can do, Blaine." Mr. Schuester abandoned him then to sit with the other students. Blaine wiped his suddenly damp hands on his pants. He was so screwed.

He glanced around the tiers of faces. Some were openly hostile, some leering, most mainly curious. Mercedes caught his eye and gave him a quick wink and a thumbs up. He could do this, Blaine told himself. No sweat. He took a seat at the piano and it was like some sense memory floated up to him from his fingertips. Suddenly the music was there, waiting for him, like always. He knew exactly what he wanted to sing.

He took a breath, and then he was gliding into the intro and he was gone. He screamed through the high notes and stomped on the piano like you were never supposed to do. He heard his voice crack towards the end, but he didn't care. When he finished, he was tired and panting.

He was met with silence. Finally, Mr. Schuester jumped up, clapping. "Wow! That was intense. Wasn't that intense, guys?" The rest began to clap and soon Blaine could breathe again.

"What was that?" a blonde in the back asked.

"Ben Folds. _Landed_."

He looked over to Mercedes and thought she was crying for a second before she beamed a huge smile at him. Good, he hadn't screwed up again.

Mr. Shuester came over as if to clap him on the back, then paused, withdrawing. "What do you guys think? Is he a keeper?"

"Definitely, Mr. Schue," Mercedes voiced immediately.

'Seconded," the boy in the wheelchair told them. He gave Blaine an encouraging smile.

"Alright then. Welcome to New Directions." Blaine held out his hand before Mr. Schuester could ruffle his hair or high five him, or something else equally embarrassing. He shook it politely, if quizzically, then gestured towards the piano. "Now, I wanted to start us off by taking song suggestions for Sectionals."

What followed was the most eclectic selection of music samples Blaine had ever heard. Suggestions covered rock, R and B, Broadway, skaa, old school blues, new age trance, and everything in between. Blaine thought about a multi-layered "Teenage Dream", but that would have been more of a Warblers' suggestion. It would be perfect for them, he realized and made a note to pass the idea on to David. The debate was heating up, but Blaine decided not to jump in. After all, he didn't know what any of them could do, or even what they usually performed.

With a plink and a plonk, Blaine idly tapped out a tune or two on the piano and waited for things to die down. He changed over to a bluesy _Cool_, a song he had been obsessed with his freshman year until it became a kind of mantra playing in the back of his mind, _Go man go, but not like a yo-yo school boy. Just play it cool, boy. Real cool._ He dropped down into the lower registers for the last line, smiling at the beautifully mellow tone of this piano.

He felt the bench shift as he was finishing and glanced over to where Tina was sitting down. "That's really cool."

"Thanks," Blaine smiled, but took his hands off the keys.

"Do you know anything more modern?"

"What are you thinking? Broadway? Or more Top 40?"

"No, no," Tina shook her head. "Broadway is more Rachel and Kurt… Rachel's thing. I tried to sing 'Maria' once and Rachel nearly knee-capped me to get the solo from me."

"Wow. No Broadway then."

"Do you know _Dog Days Are Over_?"

He launched into the introduction as a response. Tina quietly sang along, eying that gorgeous boyfriend of hers. Life was so unfair, he thought with a rueful smile, careful not to stare too long at the object of Tina's affection. He turned his concentration back to Tina, who waggled her eyebrows as if to say, "I know, right?" Blaine blushed at being caught, but winked in agreement. They dissolved into laughter, the song ruined.

Mike walked over then. "What's so funny?" he asked with a shy grin and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Just bonding over our mutual lust for your hot body."

Both Blaine and Mike turned beet red.

"Tina," Blaine tried to explain, then switched to Mike when she wouldn't stop laughing. "Mike, I meant no disrespect…"

"Relax," Tina cut him off. "I'd be more upset if you didn't. Even Puck has a crush on Mike."

"Who's saying my name?" a mohawked boy shouted across the din.

"You like Mike, right?" she shouted back.

"Hells yeah! Mike's my boy."

"Tina," Mike protested, but Tina ignored him.

"See! Oh, you know you love it," she shushed a blushing Mike Chang. She stretched up to give him a small peck. She then turned back to Blaine. "Plus, you know that whole Asian stereotype – so not a problem," she grinned wickedly and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"I feel so used," Mike tried to pull away.

Tina laughed and held on, kissing him back into compliance. Blaine had to look away when he caught a flash of tongue. Blaine thought about Dalton and how daring he had felt to hold hands with his first boyfriend. Part of him was nervously excited about getting to the point that Tina and Mike were at. A smaller part wanted to look back, because, really, it was Mike Chang. Besides, Tina had basically given him permission to ogle her boyfriend.

It hit him. Tina had given him permission. Mike hadn't moved away from the gay kid. He realized then what Tina had done. As a thank you, he stood up and left the bench to the two love birds. He found a seat by Mercedes. She reached out and took his hand with a gentle squeeze then went back to shouting Rachel down. Blaine knew he looked like an idiot, but he couldn't stop smiling the rest of the day.

The smile lasted until he reached his grandparents' tiny tract house. He carefully schooled his features into a more somber mien. It wouldn't do to look too happy. The last time he had come home smiling, the day Kurt had talked to him, his grandfather had asked if he was smoking the dope. The proceeding lecture on the dangers of gateway drugs had lasted thirty minutes. Both seemed worried that Blaine would fall into drugs, prostitution, or self-harm at the slightest provocation. He wondered what his father had told them. Maybe, Blaine thought as he flung his backpack into its assigned corner, he hadn't told them anything. Maybe dear old Dad had simply thrust money at them and promised to keep it coming.

No, he chastised himself. His grandparents weren't like that. They had treated him kindly, if a little strictly. He had lost all cell phone privileges when he had moved out. Call it what it is, he told himself fiercely. When Dad stopped paying the phone bill, Blaine hadn't had enough money to pay it himself. His grandparents had said good riddance and graciously allowed him to use their phone for a half-hour each night, under supervision. His computer use was likely monitored and limited to only school-related purposes. The job with New Directions had seemed like a prison release. One extra hour of freedom, three times a week. Now that he was a part of the show choir, it felt like a miracle. He wanted to knock on wood that he would get to keep his joy this time.

Grandma Anderson was at the kitchen table, gluing pompoms onto an old cigar box. She had rhinestones, felt edging, and a black lacquered handle scattered around her. Blaine's inner fashionista shuddered at the thought of all of those materials on the same handbag. Yet people bought them, Blaine knew from painful experience. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, they were ensconced in their own permanent booth at the flea market.

"Hi Grandma," he kissed her cheek on the way to the fridge.

"Blaine, how was school today?"

"Good. I started my new job today."

"We told you that you didn't need to do that. We'll pay for anything you need."

"I know, but this isn't really work anyway. It's more like getting paid for an extracurricular," _and getting my phone back_, Blaine added silently. He rummaged around for a small snack.

"What are you doing again?"  
>"Playing piano for the Glee club. And they invited me to sing with them." The smile came creeping back at the thought.<p>

"That's wonderful, dear. I didn't know you could sing. Your father never mentioned any choir concerts."

He found a paper plate and cleared a space next to her. "Dad didn't even come to them so don't sweat it."

A warm dry hand covered his. "We would have come. But maybe it's better that we didn't," she said with a wink. "Your grandfather would just have embarrassed you with all of his cheering."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed, but without much enthusiasm. He put his carrot back on the plate, suddenly tired.

Grandma squeezed his arm before letting go. "Things will get better, you'll see," she promised.

"They have. It can only keep going up from here, right?" He tried to smile, but his mind was stuck in the horrible loop it seemed to fall into whenever he wasn't busy with something else. He remembered that night in August. The Warblers' party at Wes' house. Some alumni spiking the punch. Realizing he was tipsy an hour before curfew. He had wanted to weep, he remembered, because he had been trying so damn hard to be the good son all summer. He had fixed the GTO. He had played catch in the backyard and helped his mother with her volunteer work. He had even hidden his _Vogue _and _GQ_ magazines in his closet. He had done everything right all summer, despite the disapproving sniffs and the cold glares. Now it was going to be ruined by a stupid prank.

He remembered his father at the top of the stairs, then the shoving match they had gotten into when his dad had smelled the alcohol on his breath. He remembered falling for a long time. He remembered the warmth across his back from the bruises as he packed his things. He remembered the maid checking over his selections before she drove him to his grandparents' house. He remembered Grandpa offering to help with his bags. The son in exile, he had called himself when he explained the situation to Wes and David.

"The prodigal son," David had corrected. He had promised to hold his seat on the council for him. "We'll see you soon."

Three months later and they were all still waiting for his dad to change his mind.

Blaine shook off the gloom of his thoughts with an effort. "Do you need any help?" he offered.

"Thank you, hon." And then his hands were too full of felt and pipe cleaners and hot glue to concentrate on anything else.


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt flipped past "Project Runaway" again. Not even Danny-boy from Season 2 could catch his interest for long. His stupid cast was itching beyond belief. He snaked the contraband backscratcher down inside the cast. The relief was sweet, but fleeting. As soon as he hid the scratcher under the couch cushion, the itch started again. And even that irritation wasn't enough to take his mind off of school tomorrow, or his court hearing this afternoon.

"Make it work," he muttered to himself darkly. Hadn't he? He had paid his bills and stayed out of Karofsky's way. He had been handling the situation to the best of his abilities. And now, because one adult added up his bruises and his weight, added two and two together, and came up with abuse, they were going to take everything away. He had tried to explain it to the ER nurse that night, and Sam's mom the next morning. He was sad, his dad had died, of course he didn't feel like eating. He was a light eater at the best of times, and when he was stressed out, well. The stupid nurse had asked what he was so stressed out about, like she had missed the first half of the conversation. Sam's mom had simply asked him to explain the bruises and broken bones. "Snitches get stitches" he could hear Puck warn in the back of his mind. Kurt knew he really couldn't afford any more stitches than he already had. That was when he decided discretion was the better part of valor.

Sam's mom brought the lunch tray in then and settled it over his hips. Kurt tried to glance surreptitiously to make sure the backscratcher wasn't visible. She handed him a napkin and he smiled his thanks.

"How you feelin', kiddo?"

Kurt shrugged and started picking apart his salad. It was really hard not to snap a rejoinder to the kiddo label.

"So…" She carefully laid out her lunch and avoided eye contact. "School tomorrow, huh?"

"Yes," he agreed. With adults, it was better to let them steer the conversation. They, afterall, knew where the potholes were hiding.

"Nervous?"

"Not really," although his appetite had disappeared again, thanks to Mrs. Evans' conversation topics. "Same old, same old."

She reached forward and grabbed his wrist then. Kurt had to fight his natural instinct to pull away. "You know that you have the right to feel safe, right? That there is no excuse for someone pushing you around?"

"I know," he carefully extracted his hand, all the while counting to ten, then ten in French, then Spanish. Anything to stop him from screaming every last drop of anger and frustration into the nice woman's face. "I am a very special person, deserving of respect."

"Kurt."

"Sorry," he smiled back. "My dad always said I had a twisted sense of humor." He jabbed a cherry tomato into submission.

"Your dad sounds like a nice guy. Were you two close?" she scooted to the edge of her chair and abandoned the pretense of a quiet lunch. Kurt guessed he should have been expecting the therapy session. He could see the thought flashing behind her eyes, "Poor little orphan Kurt."

"He was my dad," Kurt tried to infuse the words with as much attitude as possible. "Were you and your dad close?"

"Kurt," Mrs. Evans pulled back. "We just want to help."

"With what?" Kurt retorted.

"Excuse me?"

"What do you want to help with, exactly?" Kurt was careful to enunciate each syllable.

Her hands flapped for a moment as if to encompass the room and the neighborhood beyond, before settling in her lap. "With your situation, I guess."

"What do you mean by my situation?"

She looked at him as if he had grown another head. "The things you have to deal with. You've taken far more on your shoulders than a kid your age should have to."

"But you don't know what those things are, do you?" He set the tray on the coffee table. "Don't worry, Mrs. Evans; it's an easy mistake for adults to make. You all are just big fixers. You see a problem and you want to fix it. But you don't know what the problem is, and so you're bumbling about and making things worse." He carefully folded his napkin and set it on his tray. "I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Evans, but I am a big boy. I've got this under control."

When she didn't say anything, Kurt nodded and started to walk out before he stopped himself. Manners, he chided. "May I be excused?"

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Evans distractedly dismissed him. He had nearly made it to the stairs, when she called out to him. "Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"I'm…," he waited a beat, two. "We should leave about three. Okay?"

"Okay."

Kurt walked up the rest of the stairs in silence. It was a relief to lie back down on the rollaway mattress that Sam had tucked into a corner of his room. The middle bar always seemed to press on one of Kurt's bruises, but a real bed beat a couch any day. He curled up on his good side and pulled the note out from under his pillow. He imagined that it smelled like vanilla chapstick, and Old Spice, and hair gel. "Blaine," he tried out the name, and liked how it made his tongue click against his teeth. "Blaine." He uncurled the paper and reread the note. The note itself was nothing special. There were no XOXOs or "Love, Blaine"s. It was all "Hi, hope you're feeling better, see you soon" formality. Underneath, however, Kurt could sense the bigger picture. Blaine had written him a note and asked Sam to deliver it. Blaine had noticed he wasn't in school. Blaine had cared enough to check on him. He carefully refolded the note and hid it back under his pillow.

A half-scribbled note wasn't much to hang his happiness on. It wasn't the same as having his dad back or being on a Broadway stage. It was just a nice little daydream of holding hands and sharing yogurt, maybe going on coffee dates. It was nice enough that Kurt was able to relax and fall asleep.

_..._

_"Kurt Hummel – Back in Family Court"_

_The former Gleek was back in court Tuesday for as yet unknown charges, an anonymous source told this intrepid reporter. "Dude was straight up trippin', nearly ran into me on his way out." There has been no hint yet of why Hummel went before the judge again, but my source had a theory about that as well. "Living's kinda expensive. Kid probably got busted for trying to make a little money on the side." With Daddy Warbucks being dead and all, it begs the question – how do you make your money, Hummel? How do you pay your bills?_

_Next week: Habitats for Hobbits – Not Just a Charity Anymore_

_-Jewfro at Large_

...

Blaine noticed the note in his locker before school. A quick glance confirmed the author and Blaine fought the smile that wanted to burst across his face. "Hi, Kurt," he whispered, then caught himself. He dared a fast look around, but no one was paying him any attention. He yanked his lunch bag out of his backpack, tossed his sandwich in his locker and then carefully sealed the note inside. It meant he wouldn't get to read it until after class had started, but at least the note was protected from flying slushies. He slammed his locker shut. It took every ounce of his willpower not to shout his joy to the rafters. Kurt had written him back. Today was going to be a good day.

...

Sam watched carefully as Kurt made his way to class for the first time in a week, then turned towards the choir room. He had to check in with Mr. Schue to see what he had missed the past couple of days.

The room was already occupied. Sam, seeing Rachel and Finn intertwined on a chair, pulled back through the doors. He really didn't want to interrupt that.

An "I'm sorry, Mom," stopped Sam in his tracks. That was really weird even for Finn and Rachel. "You would just have worried. Besides, he seemed to be doing okay."

Sam snuck a peek back through the doors. He noticed Finn's phone this time, which made Finn a braver man than him. His mom would have known there was a girl on his lap and read him the riot act before Sam could have said a word.

"Well, the guy at his dad's shop was keeping an eye on him. And he had a place to stay. We were running interference for him at school."

Sam heard Rachel murmur something to Finn, but he couldn't quite understand it.

"Me and Puck." A pause again. "I don't know. He hasn't been in school for a while."

Sam realized then who they were talking about. He froze, suddenly indecisive. Kurt would kill him if he told Finn. On the other, going it alone had nearly killed Kurt, and Sam didn't really like playing with those odds. Besides, every good QB knew the value of teamwork. Screw it, he decided and stepped into the room.

"Mom, I know. I said I'm sorry."

Rachel spotted him immediately and poked Finn in the shoulder. "I've got to go, Mom….Yeah, I know. Me too. Bye." The pair shifted to their own chairs.

"Hey Sam, we missed you this morning." Rachel's greeting was as bright and cheery as ever.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I was helping out a friend."

"That's very conscientious of you, Sam, but you also have to realize that show choir is a big commitment."

"Rachel," Finn interrupted. "What did you need?" he turned back to Sam.

"Actually, I was hoping we could help each other."

"Ookayyy…"

"Kurt's been at my house for the past week."

"He's okay, right?" Rachel jumped in.

"He's pretty beat up," Sam pulled a chair out and around to face them. "Somebody cornered him last Friday and broke his arm." Sam could hear the groan of the plastic as Finn's grip on the chair tightened. "My mom's a nurse, so I took him home. A good thing, right? We ended up taking him to the hospital and they called Child Protective Services, because, I mean, if you've looked at his back recently, he looks like someone uses him for a punching bag."

"Karofsky," he heard them mutter to each other.

"Yeah, probably. Anyway, Child Services did some snooping, found out where Kurt had been living, and they revoked his emancipated minor status. Kurt can't live on his own anymore."

"This sucks."

"Yeah."

"Can't he stay with you guys?"

Sam shrugged, trying to hold back the angry tirade he had unleashed on his parents the night before. "My parents won't go for it. My mom says we have three kids already, and my dad is worried about our budget since we're still recovering from our move up here."

"I'll ask my mom."

"I'll ask my dads. I know they would love to help out someone from the LGBTQ community."

Sam really wanted to hug them; it was something he would have done at his old school. Instead, Sam repeated his new mantra _"What would Swayze do?" _and then held up his fist for a fist bump. Rachel eyed the fist a moment, before ignoring it and sweeping him up into a hug. Finn manfully patted his back. I should have done that, Sam realized. He would get the hang of being cool someday, he knew. It just was taking him a while to figure out all the rules.

"We'll talk at lunch," Finn assured him as they left for their first hour classes. He slung an arm around Rachel's waist and she leaned into it. Sam watched them walk off, a little envious, before making his own way through the crowd. Kurt, he decided, would just have to forgive him.


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine wasn't ready for it. He was never ready for these things. But today seemed especially cruel. During every period, someone had arrived at the doorway with a pass to the principal's office. They were fake, of course. Blaine was pretty sure the principal didn't even know his name. That didn't stop the teachers from sending him out into the hallway, where a member of the slushie squad was waiting for him. By fourth period, other people had caught onto the prank, smirking when the knock at the door came. It was fifth hour now, Blaine had run through his back-up outfit, and he hadn't bothered to wash his hair since the last encounter. Kurt's note had stayed buried in his backpack, lest someone ruin it. Blaine was so pissed at the indifference to what was going on that he was determined to give everyone something to really ignore. The growing puddle of grape syrup under him should do the trick.

The dreaded knock sounded then, interrupting his thoughts and the teacher's lecture on the mating cycle of mayflies. "Pass, Mr. McCormick."

"Blaine," his science teacher called out.

Blaine clamped his jaw down tight on what he wanted to say. It never did any good anyway. Besides, a gentleman never lost his temper. It was crass.

"Mr. McCormick?" a voice called from the back.

"Mercedes?"

"Can I have the bathroom pass?"

"Certainly. When Mr. Anderson returns." Blaine glanced back to his friend, who smiled in sympathy. He appreciated the effort, but he was kinda glad she wouldn't be in the line of fire too.

As soon as he turned the corner, he was hit in the face with a cup of ice. Cherry, this time, he decided, licking his lips. He swiped at his eyes, trying to clear them enough to see who was laughing like a hyena. Connor and Karofsky, great.

"Hi guys."

"Hiya boys," Connor imitated, bending his wrist.

Blaine turned to start walking to the principal's office. He wasn't expecting the shove into the lockers, although he should have.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Blaine tried to turn to face them, but a hand was keeping his head pinned to the lockers. A body pushed in close. "Funny joke, guys. But I've got somewhere to be."

"Aw. Connor, I don't think he wants to play with us anymore." Connor moved into his view then, a marker in hand.

"But I'm not done yet."

Connor uncapped the Sharpie and Blaine let loose. He kicked and elbowed for what it was worth. A sharp fist to the kidneys dropped him to his knees, but by then Blaine wasn't feeling the pain. It was freshman year again, a school dance, and the three guys around him had baseball bats. "No, no, no," he moaned.

"Fucking hold him already."

"I'm trying!"

Hands were back, pushing him down to the floor. "Just finish it."

"I'm trying!"

Connor's hand gripped his hair then, holding him to the linoleum, while he tried to scrawl a word across Blaine's forehead. Blaine didn't really care at this point. One hand landed on the small of his back, and Blaine redoubled his efforts to get free, squirming so hard that he dislodged the hand on his face. It slipped, and Blaine bit into it as hard as he could. Someone hit him again in the back, and Blaine had to let go to breathe. He could feel tremors shake his body, but Blaine felt anything but fear now. More than anything he wanted that hand back within reach.

"Forget this. Connor, let's go man."

"Pissant bit me!"

"I'm going to hit you if you don't move it. Now!"

Blaine stayed down until they were gone, then hurried up himself. He didn't want to explain this to anyone, didn't want to get in trouble for a fight he didn't start. He ran for the nearest bathroom as soon as his legs were steady enough to carry him. Once inside, he locked the door and closed his eyes. With an effort, he straightened his shoulders. He smoothed the front of his shirt with one hand and felt the aching loss of a tie to straighten with his other hand. He tried running a hand through his hair, but the move lacked the magically settling quality that his old routine had engendered. Think Rock Hudson, he told himself, or Gene Kelly. But there was no smile charming enough to cover this situation, no move dapper enough to deflect attention. His clothes were ruined, his shoes were sticking to the floor, and ink was branding his forehead, but he couldn't be moved to deal with any of it.

Instead, he turned on the hot water. A glance in the mirror showed the word he had expected. He ignored it in favor of dunking his hair in the sputtering font of tepid water. A couple of paper towels took care of the mess dripping down his neck. The hand dryer helped him dry his hair and with a bit of attitude, Blaine teased his curls out to their full height. His hair made him at least three inches taller. He took one last look in the mirror, then dragged out his own Sharpie. Might as well make this memorable, he decided. With a steady hand, he fixed the sloppy job Connor had done. He even added one of Rachel Berry's stars at the end. "Eat your heart out Rock Hudson," he finished with a flourish. When he rolled his shoulders this time, his normal posture slotted naturally back into place. He threw open the bathroom door, finally ready.

Blaine Anderson, a Warbler and a gentleman, was a fucking faggot and damn proud of it. His back straight, his feet pounding out the rhythm to _Back in Black_, Blaine looked his school mates in the eye and dared them to tell him any different.


	10. Chapter 10

"I have some make-up remover that works well on permanent marker."

Blaine's head jerked up from his study of the wall opposite Guidance. "Kurt, you're back! Well, of course you're back. I got your note." When he stopped to breathe, he noticed Kurt's new cast and the fading bruise at his temple. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Seems to be going around." Blaine waved vaguely at his forehead.

Kurt dug around in his satchel one handed before pulling out a make-up jar. "Do you want it?"

"Maybe later," Blaine confessed. "Right now, I'm enjoying some shameless self-promotion."

Kurt curled into a chair next to him. "Really?"

"What, you don't like it?"

"The star was a nice touch," Kurt admitted with a small laugh, then seemed to realize what he was doing. He pulled away then, focusing on Blaine's wall.

Blaine let the silence grow until he couldn't stand it anymore. "What're you in for?" he leaned over conspiratorially. Sue him, he was tired of holding back.

Kurt raised his cast-bound arm in reply. "Apparently, 'I tripped and fell' wasn't a believable enough explanation. You?"

"My shameless self-promotion was too shameless for a serious learning environment. 'People' have become deeply concerned."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"People are jerks."

Blaine hummed in agreement. The silence this time was much easier. They watched as a freshman snuck into the supply closet with her boyfriend.

"Can I sign your cast?"

Kurt blinked a moment and Blaine could sense his hesitation. "Don't do anything too big."

With a grin, Blaine set to putting an entire message on the white expanse, working from elbow to wrist. "Blaine…" Kurt tried to pull his arm away, but Blaine wouldn't let him. With a flourish, he signed his name.

"Perfect."

"Blaine, this isn't small. What did you…'Kurt—you are the star on my forehead!' Really? You are such a dork."

"Thank you."

Kurt examined the writing on his cast once more before putting his arm back in its sling.

"Why won't you tell them who did it?"

Kurt turned away from him then, focusing on the occupied closet. "It wouldn't fix anything."

"It might fix you," Blaine smiled gently and tapped his forehead. Kurt reached up as if he was going to touch Blaine's new tattoo, but shied away at the last minute.

"Maybe," he smiled back. "But probably not."

"Courage, young Skywalker," Blaine intoned.

"You are such a dork," Kurt laughed. "You and Sam."

Miss Pillsbury came to collect Blaine then, which was probably a good thing, Blaine decided. It didn't give him enough time to be jealous of this Sam guy. He glanced back at Kurt, tapping his forehead with a grin. "Courage."

Kurt rolled his eyes and laughed.

...

Kurt was surprised later when Miss Pillsbury led him to the main office instead of into her own. He was shocked when Finn's mother, Finn, Sam, Sam's mom, and Mr. Schuester walked in. Clearly, he had come to the wrong meeting.

He made a show of checking his watch. "Would you look at the time! I have an appointment I just have to get to." He started to climb his way out of the chair.

"Sit down, Kurt," Mr. Schuester told him. "We just want to talk."

"Just. Okay." Kurt pulled his cast closer to him. The message Blaine had left earlier peeked out at him, making Kurt smile briefly. Courage, he told himself.

"We know things have been hard since your dad died, honey," Carole butted in. "You've been on your own and dealing with some things that someone your age shouldn't have to deal with."

"I can take care of myself," Kurt insisted despite the weird feeling of deja vu. His emancipation papers proved it.

"No, dude, you can't." Finn, of all people, had no room to judge him. "You've been living at the garage."

"How would you know?" Stupid, Kurt berated himself. He had just admitted Finn was right.

"Rachel and I have been watching out for you."

"Spying, you mean."

"We were worried. You've been kinda weird lately." Finn at least had the grace to look down.

"My dad died, Finn."

Finn refused to be sidetracked. "Burt was awesome, no lie. But I don't think he would want you to be on your own and dealing with everything by yourself."

"My dad is dead. He doesn't have a lot of opinions anymore."

Carole tried to steer the conversation back to a more civil line. "I've been talking to Sam and his mother. They've filled us in on a little bit of what's been going on."

"I was worried, dude," Sam tried to explain.

"We know about the court decision," Carole finally blurted out. "Finn and I wanted to offer you a place to stay."

"I'm not a charity case. I don't need your misguided pity." Kurt stood up to go.

"I loved your father, Kurt. Please let me do this for him," she laid a gentle hand on his forearm, but Kurt flinched away from the touch. He really needed not to be touched right now.

"My dad is dead. And you are not my mother."

Carole nodded, tears starting to fall. "You're right and I wouldn't dream of replacing your parents."

Kurt couldn't stand the sight of Carole in tears, so he turned his anger on Finn. "Are you okay with this? A faggot living under your roof? Be careful, I might climb into bed with you one night. Who knows, you might even like it."

"Stop it, Kurt," Sam told him quietly, stepping up next to him.

"What is your problem, man?" Finn confronted him. "We're just trying to help you."

"I don't need your help," Kurt screamed at them, his voice cracking at the end. Finn reached out to grab him and Kurt pushed him away. "Do not touch me."

Sam stepped in then, interposing himself between Kurt and the rest of the room. "Kurt, you need to breathe. Remember what the doctor said?"

Kurt nodded. He focused on the five count exercise his doctor had taught him to calm his nerves. "I want to go home."

"I know, but that's what we need to talk about. You can't stay at my house indefinitely. I wish you could," Sam smiled at him.

"I know," Kurt could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but refused to let his frustration show.

"If I could offer an alternative?" Mr. Schuester finally spoke up. Everyone turned to face him. "Kurt could stay with me? I have an extra room." When no one interrupted him, he kept going. "Kurt could pay me a little bit of rent each month, so it wouldn't be charity," he smiled at Kurt. "But he would still have an adult around to keep an eye on him."

Kurt tried really hard not to roll his eyes at the idea of Mr. Schue being a responsible adult.

"That could work, Kurt," Sam prodded him. Finn and Ms. Hudson looked like they wanted to argue.

"Please Kurt. I feel like I have a lot to make up for and this could be a good thing for both of us," Mr. Schuester had never seemed more earnest.

Kurt wanted to protest. He and Mr. Schuester had never seen eye to eye. This had all the earmarks of a grand disaster written all over it. He looked over at the Hudsons. Could he go with them? He remembered Carole's attempts at smothering hugs and Finn's awkward hand on his shoulder during the funeral. He tried to imagine his things in the Hudson household, all of them settled down to a family dinner. The feelings of guilt and regret nearly choked him. Could he betray his dad like that?

"Can I think about it?"

"You have until Friday and then they put you in the foster care system," Sam's mom reminded him.

"I know."

Sam touched a gentle hand to his back, guiding him to the door. "Let's get home, huh? It's probably time for your meds anyway."

Things would have been so much easier if he could have stayed with the Evans. Kurt mentally slapped that thought away. Only little kids whined about how unfair life was. He guessed he should be glad, however. No one had tried to weasel Karofsky's name out of him. Small blessings. He tried to focus on those.


	11. Chapter 11

He needed more options, Blaine decided, glancing over his list. The soft thrump of jeans and t-shirts in the dryer was not helping his thought process. Neither was the slightly urine smell of Lima's Quickee Laundromat. He forced himself to recite the list again.

_1. Go home._

_2. Go back to his grandparents' house._

_3. Run away to New York._

_4. ?_

He could try going back to the home that had thrown him out – not appealing. Go back to his grandparents' prison sentence? Again, not appealing. Number three had been more of a whim than anything. He had almost no money on him. If he was really serious about this plan, he would have to somehow get access to his savings account, which meant getting his dad's signature. Yet again, not appealing and highly unlikely. He had spent the last hour trying to come up with a fourth option.

It was no use. The sound of his head hitting the table made a nice thumping sound. He pulled Kurt's letter out of his pocket, smoothing a thumb over the curves of the B. Have to focus on the good things, he reminded himself.

"Anderson?"

Blaine shoved the letter back in his pants before looking up. He was surprised that anyone would be here at two in the morning. Then he saw who it was. "Puckerman. How are you?"

"Dude, what are you doing here?" Puckerman flipped a chair around on the other side of the table and sat down. Blaine was quick to hide his list under his sleeve.

"My clothes?" Blaine thought that was rather obvious.

Puckerman rolled his eyes. "Why are you doing them here and not at whatever fancy house you live in?"

"My grandparents live off of the freeway. We aren't exactly rolling in money." He didn't feel like mentioning his dad.

"Let's try this one more time. Why are you doing laundry at two in the morning?" Puckerman leaned in closer. "What's going on, man?"

"Nothing, Puckerman."

"Puck, and I call bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"No. Last time I let someone tell me everything was fine, my boy Finn was getting hit by the next wanna-be Mr. Hudson. I caught him leaving some pathetic crayon note in my mailbox, telling me he was running away from home. He had his little rucksack all packed up and was going to ride the rails like some friggin' poster child for the littlest hobo." Puck batted his eyes and tried to mimic Finn's hunched stature. "He was so adorable, my mom took pity on him, let him stay the night."

"What happened to the other guy?"

"Mrs. Hudson threatened to take a baseball bat to his balls. I swear I have never seen a man move that fast with his jeans around his ankles. It was hilarious." Puck at least laughed. "So, what's going on? Is someone touching you in a bad way?"

"Nothing is going on, Puck." Blaine pulled away, using his clothes as an excuse. The dryer hadn't gone off, but he was yanking clothes out anyway. "Nobody is hurting me."

"Not at home maybe." Blaine turned around in protest, and Puck was suddenly uncomfortably close. The larger boy had Blaine boxed in against the dryers. Blaine shoved him back without thinking. Puck didn't really move. "You do get an 'A' for effort though," Puck smirked, reaching a hand up to the design on Blaine's forehead.

"Don't."

Puck finally backed up, letting Blaine move away. He held up Blaine's list and simply raised an eyebrow.

"That is none of your business."

"Well, shit on a brick, Anderson. And here I was trying to be friendly."

"You don't need to worry about me," Blaine told him fiercely.

"Somebody should. I thought Mercedes and Tina had a handle on it, but I guess not, if you're here."

"No, Mercedes and Tina have been really great. Mike too. I just didn't want to bother anybody. It isn't a big deal." Blaine made frantic work of shoving his clothes back into his backpack.

"And my people were being fed bonbons in Egypt," Puck had moved so that he was between Blaine and the door. "Look, we're not going to let this happen again, so you might as tell me what's going on."

Blaine mustered every cell of Dalton and Mr. Anderson left in his body and stared Puck down. "You don't owe me anything."

"Screw this sensitive crap. I don't know why I bothered." Puck grabbed him by the back of his jacket and shoved him through the door into the night. He dragged him over to a beat-up looking yellow truck and pushed him inside.

"My car," Blaine protested.

"We'll get it later." Puck started the truck with a jerk of the key and a yank on the stick shift. "You know, I could have been out with my homeboys, tonight. We had something really special planned. I was going to make a little money for a change. But no. I have to come after your sorry ass because Mercedes thinks you're in trouble." He continued on in that vein until they reached a tan house on the edge of a park. "I've got him," he growled into his cell phone, then parked the car.

"Puck…" Blaine reached for the handle of the car. Puck smirked at him and hit the child locks. "What are you going to do?"

"Me? Nothing. I'd be more worried about her," he pointed to the dark figure sneaking out of the house.

Mercedes knocked on the window and Puck obligingly rolled it down. "Puck, Blaine."

"Hi Mercedes," Blaine tentatively replied. He had a feeling this was going to end badly. "How are you?"

"Tired," she fired back, then turned to Puck. "Where did you find him?"

"The laundromat on Fifth," Puck responded. "Wouldn't tell me anything, though."

"Because nothing is going on," Blaine tried to protest. Honestly, he was going to be fine. People just needed to leave him alone. Like any true Anderson, he would find a way to make this okay. He didn't need help. He tried to recreate his best authority-pleasing smile. "I'm fine."

She started to say something, then stopped herself and tried again. "I don't think you've been fine since I've met you."

The words were like a physical slap. All of that hard work to seem normal, to show a happy, confidant Blaine to the world had apparently been for naught. To his mortification, he could feel his eyes watering.

"C'mon," Puck threw the car into park and turned off the engine. Mercedes maneuvered Blaine out of the car and together they walked him to the small park across the road. Puck shoved him down into a swing and sat on the ground in front of him. Mercedes opted for the swing next to him. No one spoke for a long time, letting Blaine cry silently. Blaine tried to rein in the tears, but every quiet, tight smile Mercedes sent his way undid his efforts. He knew how he must look, with tear streaks across his cheeks, ink smeared across his forehead and his hair a tangle. But he couldn't seem to stop.

"So, not fine?" Puck broke the silence.

Blaine shrugged; there really wasn't much he could say to that. He watched as Mercedes glared at Puck, flashing her eyebrows with intent. Puck sighed and scrapped his hand over his mohawk. "Do you want to talk about it?" Blaine might have taken him up on the offer if Puck had been able to look him in the face. Instead, he was staring off into the distance over Blaine's shoulder.

"It's alright," Blaine insisted. "I can handle it."

"Great," Puck stood, dusting sand off of his pants. "Can we go now?" he asked Mercedes.

"Puck." She pointed to the ground at her feet.

"Fine," Puck threw up his hands. "But I am not going to do this sober." He stalked off to his truck.

"Sorry," Mercedes told Blaine. "But I didn't know anyone else with a car."

"S'okay." Blaine wiped his nose on his sleeve. He still didn't know why they had been out looking for him. "So you do this a lot? Rescue people not in distress?"

"Blaine," Mercedes admonished him. "It's kinda a glee thing. We watch out for our own." Blaine could feel his eyes filling again. Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids did nothing to stem the flood. It was hard to swallow everything back down in the face of such unexpected warmth. "Blaine?"

"I'm okay," he choked out, but he didn't think she believed him. Soft hands tugged him into her, his body curling naturally into the hug. It was really nice, he decided, to be held. It was nice to be touched, period. One hand curled into his hair, as girls' hands always did, and he finally settled with his forehead resting against her collarbone. They nearly slid apart, the swings wanting to break into their normal trajectory. Blaine quickly wrapped an arm around her waist to anchor them together.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, Boo, but please don't say you're fine when you're clearly not."

Maybe it was that, more than anything, that loosened his tongue, but he soon found himself muttering the entire story into her shoulder. Even when Puck came back with a bottle of Jack, he didn't stop the flood of words. The other boy didn't interrupt. He just sat, quietly sipping his whiskey. When there was a pause, he would pass the bottle around amongst them. By the end of his story, Blaine could feel that lovely little slide of perception that meant he was well and truly buzzed.

"Maybe it's my fault," he conceded. "It's not like I haven't tried not being gay." He hoisted the bottle up for another swallow and coughed as it burned its way down. "Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I could like being straight if I tried it."

"Dude, you are about as queer as a two dollar bill," Puck assured him. And if Blaine hadn't been so insulted by Puck's wording he might have noticed the wink Puck threw at Mercedes. "Besides, what woman is going to want a midget like you?"

Blaine frowned. "I'm totally hot. The girls at Crawford County Day loved me."

"The fag hags you mean." Puck threw back a shot of Jack and laughed. Blaine was a little envious that he didn't cough at all.

"No. My friend's sister who goes to Columbia told me she would totally date me if it weren't illegal." It wasn't that funny, he thought, when the other two burst into laughter. "Mercedes would date me, right?"

Mercedes laughed again, and patted him on the cheek like a two-year-old. "If you weren't so completely, completely gay, I would totally date you, Blaine Anderson."

"I might not be," he protested. "It's not like I've ever kissed anybody before, so how do I really know for sure?"

Mercedes rolled her eyes and reeled him in. "You're so gay, Blaine." She then planted a kiss on him, tilting his head and mouthing delicately at his bottom lip. He hummed. This was nice. He tried to come up with a better adjective, but his brain seemed stuck on nice. It was pleasant even. It was weird to see someone's face up close like this, but he could get used to it. Blaine shifted his head so he could get a better angle. This was really nice. He wondered if this is what it would be like to kiss Kurt.

"Okay, that's enough," she said pulling away.

"I could totally be straight," Blaine told her, finally blinking.

"My turn?" Puck asked, and then there was a boy between Blaine's knees and there was a tongue in his mouth and hands on his hips. Blaine's eyes slammed shut, a groan working its way up from somewhere deep inside. This was good. Blaine shifted his head when an impatient hand tugged on his hair. The new angle, well, that was pretty awesome too. Blaine's head was suddenly full of adjectives, like wet and hard and hot. God, so hot. He reached out for the broad shoulders in front of him and slipped down into Puck's lap. His legs seemed to open naturally around Puck's hips and that brought even more adjectives to mind. But then hands were pushing him away, and he was lying on his back in the sand, with a hard-on rubbing uncomfortably against his jeans.

"You're cute and all, but maybe you should save that for the home team," Puck chuckled, helping him sit up. Blaine knew he would be embarrassed if he were any less drunk right now. "Still confused?"

"So gay," Blaine blushed, looking up to Mercedes with a small grin. "Thanks, you guys, for clearing that up." The trio laughed, passing the bottle around once more. "Could you imagine if I did that in front of my dad? Or my grandparents? Perfect little Blaine with a guy's tongue down his throat, rubbing his lifestyle in their faces." He stole the bottle from Mercedes and chugged. "You sure you don't want to kiss again?" he asked Puck, then Mercedes. When they both refused, he shrugged. "S'okay. They don't want to touch me either." He nursed the next couple of swallows.

"Blaine…" Mercedes reached for him then and laid a gentle kiss on his forehead. He could feel Puck crowding in behind him.

"I could kiss you again if you want?" Puck offered. "I don't mind. Kissing boys isn't that big a deal." Mercedes pulled Puck in too, kissing him on the forehead as well.

"We could just stay like this for a while, right?" Blaine asked. He really didn't want to lose the comfort of two bodies surrounding his own.

"Sure," Mercedes told him. She hugged him tighter then, humming a quiet lullaby in his ear. Caught between the warmth and the soft singing, Blaine quickly succumbed to sleep. They stayed curled up like puppies in a box until a new voice broke into their sanctuary.

"Do you kids realize what time it is?" A young man in blue was towering over them, trying to look stern. Blaine tried to sink back into the pile of limbs. He was in so much trouble.

...

The police were very nice. They clucked over the obvious smell of booze, but didn't arrest them. One couldn't stop looking at Blaine's forehead. They checked licenses and then shepherded the three of them home. They saved Blaine for last.

It was in the car that one of the officers turned around to talk to him. "You doing okay back there, kid?"

"Fine."

"You know your grandma has been calling the station looking for you."

"Oh God," Blaine muttered at the sudden influx of guilt. "I didn't leave a note," he realized.

"It happens," the policeman chuckled. "But you might want to give them a call when you get home."

By the time he realized what they meant by home, they were already pulling into the long driveway of the Anderson household. Oh, this was going to suck so hard, Blaine thought.

The friendlier officer stopped him before he could ring the doorbell and handed him his card. "If anyone, and I mean anyone," he cast a significant look at the dark house, "is giving you a hard time, I want to know about it. Got it?"

"Thank you, Officer," Blaine glanced down at the card, "Johnson."

"Don't lose that card."

"I won't."

It was hard to pull a suitable face together when he had gone from the gentle comfort of friends to the harsh glare of disapproval emanating down from this father. Hemmed in by police officers on either side, Blaine was left with only one option when his dad opened the door. "Hi Dad."


	12. Chapter 12

Kurt twisted his left hand to stretch out the kinks in the tired muscles. Not being able to use his right hand was starting to get frustrating. He tried to adjust the sling, but it continued to pull on his neck. Kurt could feel a headache coming on. He squinted at the "Accounts Payable" screen, but it seemed to blur before his eyes. It was definitely time to give up on updating the garage's books.

"Jake," Kurt called.

A wrench clattered onto a work bench and Jake mosied around the edge of a beat-up station wagon. "What's up, kid?"

"I think I'm going to head out. Is there anything else you need me to take care of before I leave?" He shut down the computer and pushed in his stool.

"Nah. Although I did want to float something by you." Jake moved to block Kurt's exit. "Now, before you get to excited, hear me out." He glanced at Kurt as if he expected him to make a run for it. "The missus and I, we've been talking about my hours lately and it wasn't so bad when you were here. But now that I'm trying to run things and do inventory and cover the evening shifts, it's been some long hours. The guys try to help, but most of them are better at working on cars than working on books and most of them have kids to get home to at night. I was thinking, if you're okay with this, that we could maybe hire somebody part-time to help out."

"Can we afford it?"

Jake shuffled his hand around in his hands. "I think so. We've been doing pretty well, all told. I think we could swing it."

Kurt mentally reviewed the figures he had just finished calculating. "I think so too. Let me look at things once more, before you hire anybody."

"Can do, boss," Jake gave a sloppy salute and a grin before heading back to his work. "Have a good night!"

"You too, Jake," Kurt called back, even as he was headed to the back office. "Sam?"

Sam was seated at the desk, struggling through another ten pages of _To Kill a Mockingbird_. He seemed glad for an excuse to put the book down. "You ready to head out?"

"As soon as you are." Kurt moved around Sam and began gathering up his own school things. "Thanks again, for coming with me. It was nice to finally get back to this place."

"No problem, dude. I needed a little quiet time to tackle the beast," he held up his tattered copy of Lee's opus. "Maybe you could explain why the author takes fifty pages to describe some crazy, poor family. And what exactly is a 'chiffarobe'?"

"It's a wardrobe," Kurt reached out to rescue the book, stroking a fond hand over its well-worn cover. "I always liked that about her."

"You liked this book?" Sam opened the door back out into the garage, then followed Kurt outside.

"Yeah. I know it's somewhat long, but that's because she doesn't take any shortcuts. Every character has a reason for acting the way they do, they come from somewhere. It's not like they are prejudiced because they are evil or because they're ignorant. It takes a deeper look at racism than just the normal binary view. My aunt always called it the book that tried to explain the South to the North." He huffed a laugh at the thought of Aunt Camilla reading with him in the backyard hammock. She was probably in Tibet by now, if she was holding true to her itinerary. He should be getting a postcard soon.

Sam stopped then and turned back to him. "Then why doesn't she just say that?"

"Because it's fiction? You can't make the message too hard or no one will read it. "A spoonful of sugar," and all that." He tugged on Sam's sleeve to get him moving again.

"Man, it's too bad Atticus isn't real. He seems like a cool guy. I bet he would have Karofsky behind bars in like no time at all." Sam helped Kurt open the door and then climbed in the other side. Kurt still hadn't told anyone the name of his attacker , but Sam knew Karofsky had broken Kurt's arm and bruised his ribs. Sam also liked to voice his suspicions loudly and in front of school principals and teachers.

Kurt shook his head even as he was trying to fasten his seatbelt. "I don't know. Mr. Finch was always gentle with what's her face."

"What does that have to do with anything? Karofsky's not a girl and nobody's calling him a rapist. He's just a bully." Sam threw the car into reverse.

"Yeah," Kurt outwardly agreed. "But still…We don't know what's going on in Karofsky's head. Maybe he has a reason for what he does."

"No, Kurt, no." He knew he had pissed Sam off by the speed at which he took the next corner. "_I_ remember what you looked like last week. I've also seen what he's been doing to the new kid in Glee. You know Blaine, right?"

"Yes. Is he okay?"

"I don't know. He disappeared from his grandparents' house and now Mercedes and Mr. Schue are calling everyone, trying to find him." Sam slowed down a bit, finally, once they were nearly home. "Have you seen him?"

"I saw him before the meeting, but that was it. What happened?"

"Don't know. I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

"No, I mean with him and Karofsky. He isn't hurt is he?" Kurt pulled a suddenly tight seat belt away from his body.

"He seemed fine, despite Karofsky's loving attentions." Another jerk of the wheel, and they were a few blocks from Sam's house. "I'm sure he's okay, Kurt."

"Blaine needs to be more careful. He shouldn't mess with Karofsky."

"Why Kurt?"

"He just shouldn't."

"He seems to be handling himself okay."

"Karofsky is too big for him to handle on his own."

"Seems like he's too big for you to handle on your own, too."

"Stop it, Sam. Don't make things worse."

"I'm trying to make things better. I mean, if you won't think about yourself, think about Blaine. Or who knows how many other kids like you and him out there. You can't keep protecting Karofsky, Kurt." Sam pulled into the driveway, slamming the gear into neutral.

Kurt had to concentrate on his breathing then. "He wouldn't… he doesn't…Karofsky wouldn't."

"Kurt, man up, seriously. Karofsky is exactly like that and would do everything he has done to you to somebody else. Can you live with that fact? Can you let him hurt somebody else without saying anything?" Neither of them made any move to leave the quiet confines of the parked car.

"You mean like you did. Watching me get beat up everyday and not doing a thing to help. I should be brave like that?" Kurt shot back.

"I pulled myself together and did the right thing eventually. Can you say the same?"

"Sam, just leave it. There's no point."

"Kurt, silence gets you nowhere."

'You don't know what it's like."

"No," Sam agreed. "I don't. But you do. You know what Blaine and all of the other outcasts are going through. All I know is that you have a way to stop it and you won't."

"It isn't that simple."

"Maybe. Maybe we just need to take a sword to this Gordian knot," Sam swished an imaginary samurai sword through the air. "How cool would that be? A swish and all of your problems are solved."

"Yeah," Kurt laughed with him. "Just imagine."

Sam finally opened his door. "Let's go inside. Maybe Mom will make us some hot chocolate, huh?"

"That sounds lovely," Kurt followed behind. He wished things were really that simple. He could tell on Karofsky for some of what he had done, get him suspended at most, and then have him come back madder than ever. He could explain everything that had happened and get Karofsky expelled, but that would mean outing him, and that wasn't something Kurt wanted to do. If only there _was_ some way to cut through this tangle.


	13. Chapter 13

Blaine walked in front of his father, head bowed. He could feel the cold eyes of generations of Anderson men staring down at him. He turned to go upstairs, drunken feet tripping a little on the carpet runner, but a hand on his shoulder steered him towards the utility closet. He really didn't want to go in there. He had no reason for this sudden irrational fear except that his mind flashed, for whatever reason, to Matthew Shepherd.

When they had covered the case during a weekly GSA meeting, he had looked appropriately horrified, but inside, it hadn't really meant anything. It hadn't made sense to him, the idea of a kid, like him, being beaten to death for one small aspect of his personality. Who did that, really?

It went against the grain of everything that Dalton had been teaching him and, really, Blaine's personal view of a mostly fair and equal world. He knew that he should look at the Sadie Hawkins Dance as further proof, but his hospitalization had felt like an aberration, a singular event, not a slip into some vast conspiracy against gay people. Jonah and his friends, they were just uneducated. If their parents had taught them respect for everyone, it never would have happened. And maybe, some people would have called that wishful thinking, but Blaine had realized the necessity of such a belief. He had shuddered to think of a world where everyone hated him. Where people like his dad actually _hated_ him. If he believed that, he never would have gotten out of his hospital bed.

Now, however, with his dad pointing him towards the utility closet, his shirt still stiff with colored corn syrup and "your lifestyle" echoing in his ears, Blaine's mind was focused on Matthew Shepherd. He could picture so easily that boy on the fence and maybe for a moment, that boy had Blaine's face.

"Dad," he protested.

"I'm not letting you dirty the house. Now move, Blaine," he opened the door and gestured Blaine inside. He helped Blaine tug the shirt over his head, then pointedly handed Blaine a bar of soap. "You wore this to school?" he asked as he turned the t-shirt over in his hands. "What happened to the nice clothes your mother and I bought you?"

"I didn't want them to get ruined." Blaine focused on lathering his hands. When he had worked up a good handful of bubbles, he started to scrub at his forehead.

"What is this?" His dad sniffed cautiously at the giant multicolored stain. "It smells fruity."

"Slushie, Dad."

"How…" but his dad didn't finish the thought. He glanced over at Blaine thoughtfully. Blaine turned back to the sink. He didn't want his dad to see the bruises on his ribs or read the marker on his forehead. He would only think less of Blaine for it, only tell him to stand up for himself. "Does this happen a lot?"

Blaine shrugged. His father grabbed his shoulder then, turning Blaine to face him. A hand brushed against his rib cage, and then against his hip. Blaine shuddered beneath the scrutiny.

"Finish cleaning up and then come to the kitchen. We need to have a talk." Blaine's dad waited until Blaine nodded and then left. Knowing his dad, he had some arbitrary time limit in place. Blaine couldn't afford to delay too long. He snagged Kurt's make-up remover from his pocket then and went to work. Soon, his forehead was clean, if slightly raw-looking. He raced up to his room and changed into one of the few outfits left in his closet, a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He ran back downstairs, but walked carefully and slowly into the kitchen.

"Dad?" he called.

"Sit down, Blaine," his father gestured towards one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. A cup of coffee was already waiting for him. Looking over at the stove, he noticed his dad was cooking something. "Drink."

Blaine sat sipping his coffee and waited for his dad to make the first move.

His dad turned back to the stove then. "How's school been?"

"Fine."

"Your grandparents?"

"Fine."

His father brought over a plate then, of grilled cheese sandwiches. "I thought you might be hungry."

"Thanks," Blaine wasn't really, but his dad had gone to the effort. He took a cautious bite of one corner, before putting it back down. "It's good. Thank you."

His dad puttered around the kitchen, putting ingredients away, filling the sink. Blaine nibbled on his sandwich, trying to sit as quietly as possible. It wasn't until after his father had wiped down the counter that he tried to start the conversation again.

"I'm sorry."

Blaine dropped his sandwich in shock. His father was actually apologizing?

"But I don't believe you. Things clearly are not fine, or you wouldn't have been brought home by the police. You wouldn't be drunk again for the however many-th time this year." His dad took the plate away. "I'm worried about you, son. Ever since you started at Dalton, you've changed."

"I don't have a problem, Dad," Blaine focused on pushing his sandwich crust around his plate.

"I would expect you to say that, but the reports from school and from your grandparents tell me differently. Explain why I should believe you."

Blaine felt all of five again. An inexplicable guilt kept his head down and locked his voice in his chest. He shrugged instead.

"For a long time last year, I was afraid you were on drugs. You went away to Dalton, and my sullen, long-faced teenager came back full of smiles and too much energy to sit still. You hear so many stories about bullied teens turning to drugs, or other things."

"Dad," Blaine tried to protest.

His dad held his hand up to stall him. "Let me finish, son."

"Your mom and I almost lost you after that dance. We weren't going to lose you to something like drugs or alcohol. So we kept an eye on you. Then the maid found this in your trashcan," his dad held up a brochure, _The Born Anew Center's Reconditioning Program: It's a choice, not a lifestyle_ emblazoned across the top. "You never said you were, or not. I thought maybe this was you trying to make a decision. I tried to help as much as I could. I thought if we bonded a little this summer, it would make this transition period easier. We rebuilt that car, and went to all of those football games. I thought things were going really well. Then you came home drunk and you had your accident on the stairs, and I knew I was failing you." His dad came around the counter then, forcing Blaine to turn in his chair so that he could face him.

"I thought being at a new school and staying with your grandparents would do you some good. My parents are strict, I know, but maybe that was what you needed. Plus, you had been stuck with me after the divorce, and then at Dalton, you had only other boys around. I thought having a female presence, like your grandmother, would help."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case. Your grades have slipped, you are covered in bruises, and someone obviously held you down and drew on your forehead."

Blaine visibly started. "That's not from Dalton," Blaine protested.

His dad reached out to him then, and Blaine felt as if it was months in coming. He pulled him into a hug that was tight enough to make his ribs creak in protest. "God, Blaine, I am so worried about you right now. Just, would you tell me what's going on so we can fix it?"

Blaine hesitated. He thought about the months of self-doubt his dad had put him through. The transfer to McKinley, the exile to his grandparents' cold embrace, could he forgive all of it? His dad had claimed to do everything out of love, and Blaine could, in time, perhaps, understand the logic behind pushing your only son away to help him kick his drug habit. Could he trust the man again? His dad had crucified him on little to no evidence. The fear from earlier was crowding back in, about fences and lonely places, about empty hallways and empty parking lots, and too big bodies with cruelly tight grips holding him down. If his dad made him feel this way, what could either of them do to get past things? The idea came to him then.

"I'm gay," he muttered into his dad's shoulder.

"Okay," the arms tightened even more.

Blaine pulled back against the hold and looked his father in the eye. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not for me," his dad smiled cautiously. "Is it going to be for you?"

"No," Blaine shot back.

"Good," his dad pulled him back into the hug. "Was it a problem?" He gestured towards the pamphlet.

"God, no," Blaine swallowed. "Uhm, somebody snuck it into my bag at the hospital. I should have thrown it away then, but, to be honest, I kinda forgot about it until the GSA was looking for places to picket."

"The alcohol, I'm guessing, has a similar story?"

"Yeah, and it was only twice, Dad. I'm not a druggie."

"Okay." The fact that his dad took his word for it and didn't question him was amazing to Blaine. He rested his forehead on his dad's shoulder, trying to take as much comfort as he could get before it disappeared again. He tightened his hold for a moment, then moved on to phase two of his test.

"Dad, it wasn't okay, what you did." He felt his dad's arms drop away and tried not to wince.

"Blaine, it was out of love," his dad back up a step and crossed his arms over his chest.

"It wasn't okay," Blaine forced out again.

His dad opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped and nodded instead.

"You just made huge sweeping decisions and didn't ask me about any of it." He could see his dad quiver just a little as if Blaine were punching him. "I'm a good kid, Dad. I haven't done anything wrong, and you and Grandma and Grandpa treated me like a criminal for no reason."

His dad nodded again, curtly. His chin was moving as if he were biting down on words he wanted to say.

"You don't get to do that again. Ask me, okay? I'll try to be honest back." It was the most Blaine could offer right now. He stuck his hand out to his dad. "Deal?"

"Deal," his dad swallowed, shaking his hand firmly. When his dad used the hand to pull him back into a hug, Blaine nearly pushed him away in shock. It was a night for hugs, Blaine grinned into his dad's damp shoulder. A night for tears too, he had to acknowledge, but Blaine was going to remember the hugs.

"I am sorry, Blaine." He could feel tears hitting his hair. "I really, really am so sorry about everything."

"Okay."


	14. Chapter 14

Sam was having a horrible, no good, very bad day. Kurt hadn't talked to him at all. He was still mad about last night's heated conversation. His mom had burnt his toast and his favorite shirt was still dirty. Then, when they had finally made it to school, someone in first period warned him about a pop quiz in lit class. Sam was ready to write the whole day off as a loss. Let the suckitude begin, he taunted the world.

The universe seemed to relish the challenge because his pen burst shortly afterwards. His hands, desk, and notebook were covered in Royal Blue #12 ink. Trying to clean his hands off in the boys' bathroom with only a push nozzle and an empty soap dispenser was impossible. With a groan, he attacked the paper towel dispenser and got as much of the ink off as he could. Despite his best efforts, his skin was still a lovely shade of blue. He tried to look on the bright side; it kinda looked like the Na'vi make-up from _Avatar_. It was in no way the periwinkle color of, say, a Smurf. He held his hands up to the light. No, dammit, it was definitely Smurf-like. He could hear the jokes now. "Maybe I'll get lucky and Santana and Puck will replace _Trouty Mouth_ with _Smurfette._" He could live with that.

A noise outside the door made Sam dive for one of the stalls. He wasn't quite ready to deal with the jokes just yet. He successfully pulled his feet out of view as someone walked in. Finally, one thing was going his way.

He waited patiently for the sound of running water to end. Boys didn't take that long in the restroom. Sam would be out of here in no time.

The bathroom door slammed against the tile wall as yet another person entered. Sam dropped his head to his knees. He had spoken too soon.

"Don't you know you're supposed to use the girls' bathroom?" Karofsky, double great, Sam silently moaned.

"I was just leaving." And Kurt; wow, was this not his day. He heard the door shut. "Move, Karofsky."

"Make me."

"Real mature."

"You want to see how mature?" There was a shuffle and the dull thud of a fist hitting muscle. Sam cursed himself for hiding and moved to open the door. A weight landed hard against the stall door and made it nearly impossible for Sam to undo the latch.

"Kurt?" he shouted.

"Sam!" came the frantic reply. Sam shoved his shoulder against the door, but it wouldn't budge. _Screw this_, he thought, and managed to slide under the partition and into the next stall.

"Don't you touch him, Karofsky," Sam warned. Karofsky turned to face him, leaving Kurt huddled against the stall door.

"Lighten up, Evans. He's fine." Karofsky punched Kurt in the shoulder, missing the wince. "See? Now, why don't you take your blueberry hands somewhere else? Me and Kurt need to finish our conversation."

"You're done." Sam could feel the adrenaline start to pump. He tried to shake it out, but his hands naturally balled into fists. "And we're leaving. Unless you want to pick on someone who can fight back?"

"Any day, Evans." Sam stepped into Karofsky, pushing Kurt out of the way as he threw a hook with his other hand. Karofsky rocked back a step, but stayed standing. He threw his own punch, catching Sam on the jaw. It took time for Sam to clear the stars from his eyes, and by then, Karofsky had managed a solid right to his stomach. Sam fought to stay upright. "You quarterbacks are all the same, giant cream puffs."

Sam rushed him, dropping his shoulder at the last second so Karofsky went sailing over his back.

With Karofsky on the ground for the moment, Sam turned to Kurt. He was trying to back into the wall. His cast was held in front of him like a weapon. Sam grabbed him and started for the door. A shove from behind knocked both boys over. Sam, tangled up in Kurt, couldn't protect his head from the edge of the sink. There was a sharp crack, a blur of light, and then a hard landing. Sam tried to blink to clear his vision. No luck. He tried to sit up, vitally sure that something important was happening. He blinked, the world tilted away from him, and Sam passed out.

...

"Sam!" Kurt called. His protector was a dead weight on top of him. Karofsky loomed over them both, chuckling. "Sam," Kurt tried to wake him.

"Sammy boy is out for the count," Karofsky bragged. "I guess it's just you and me, cupcake." Karofsky shoved Sam aside and Kurt slid until he was wedged between the door and the wall.

Kurt didn't know what to do. Sam was the fighter, not Kurt. Kurt used his words, and his longer legs, and his extra half a brain to stay out of these kinds of situations. "Sam?" he called, but there was no answer. He needed help, but there was no one left. He didn't pray so much as fervently wish for his dad to stand in front of him. His dad was larger than life. If he had been there, Karofsky would have been the one cowering. But his dad was gone. No help was coming.

Kurt tried to picture his dad – his big, wide shoulders, his trucker hat, his oil-stained hands. Kurt looked down at his own hands where there were smudges of grease across the knuckles and in the nail beds. He was a Hummel, he told himself. Hummels are too stubborn to shrink back from anything. He stood up. No more hiding. He pulled his casted arm tight across his chest and waited for Karofsky to make his move.

"Now, why'd you have to be like that?" Karofsky smirked, kicking Sam in the ribs as he passed him. "I just wanted to talk."

Kurt tried to remember that summer, two years ago, when his dad had taught him how to punch somebody. "The most important thing," he could hear his dad saying, "is to follow through. Punch like you're trying to drill a hole to China, got me? Then you run like hell."

Kurt nodded to himself. "China," he whispered.

"You are so weird," Karofsky told him. "You should be thankful that someone is taking an interest in your crazy ass." The bigger boy leaned towards Kurt then, his larger form blocking out the lights from the fluorescent bulbs.

"No," Kurt told him and swung his casted arm as hard as he could. His dad would have been proud; Karofsky dropped like a rock.

The pain hit then. Shivers of nails on chalkboard hurt crawled up his arm. His dad had forgotten to mention that part. He stumbled over Karofsky to check on Sam, but he was still unconscious. He had to get Sam out of there before Karofsky woke up. Ignoring the tears of pain staining his vision, he tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. Karofsky's limp form was blocking the exit. He tried yanking the body out of the way, but he couldn't do it with only one good arm.

"Help," he called. "Somebody? We're trapped in here. Can you help us?" he called again. Minutes passed as Kurt nervously eyed Karofsky. Any minute now, he would wake up and then Kurt and Sam were both dead.

"Kurt?" a voice echoed back.

"Mr. Schue?"

"Are you okay?"  
>"No, Sam's hurt and we can't get out."<p>

"Stand back," Mr. Schue told him and then the door was slowly bending inwards.

Soon enough, a mop of hair stuck through the opening. "We're almost there," the Spanish teacher called to the group in the hallway. With another heave, they were able to wedge the door wide enough for Mr. Schue to slip through. "Hey, Kurt. Can you tell me what happened?"

Kurt opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Mr. Schuester pushed on. "Did Karofsky do something to you?"

Kurt shook his head. Karofsky hadn't touched him this time. "I hit him," Kurt confessed.

Mr. Schue noticed someone trying to peak their head in and impatiently waved them back. "Why would you do something like that, Kurt?"

"He… I can't. You wouldn't understand. I just can't."

"Kurt," Mr. Schue spoke his name earnestly. "You were the bravest guy I knew. You faced bullies for Tina. You took a slushie for Finn. You protected your dad from the world. Where did that kid go?" Kurt tried to look away, but Mr. Schue's eyes seemed to following him everywhere. "Why won't he speak up for Sam? Why won't he speak up for himself?"

Kurt tried to shrink in on himself. Why was Mr. Schuester trying to make this Kurt's fault?

"You have to say something, or this will happen again."

"You don't know," Kurt tried to protest.

Mr. Schuester softened then. "You're right. I don't. But I would like to know. Would you explain it to me?"

Kurt had to breathe for a moment. It really wasn't as simple as Mr. Schue wanted to make it. Kurt thought about the impossible knot things had become. He pictured Sam slicing through the air with an invisible sword and imagined the knot split in two, threads sliding apart. If only, he wished, but then immediately chided himself for being a child. Life didn't work like that.

Movement out of the corner of his eye startled him. Mr. Schuester had extended his hand between them, offering it to Kurt in a gesture of comfort. "Kurt?"

Kurt looked down at the hand in front of him. There was a pen callus on the middle finger and chalk dust on the wrist. A thinking man's hand, his dad might have said. He reached out to take it. "Karofsky…"

"Hurt you," Mr. Schue finished the sentence for him.

Kurt looked up to meet Mr. Schue's eyes. "Yes."

"He has been for a while," Mr. Schue prompted.

"Yes." Kurt glanced over at Sam and Karofsky limp on the floor. "Karofsky…David is really messed up. He doesn't like himself very much."

Mr. Schue squeezed his hand. "So tell me what's been going on."

Kurt did. He talked as Mercedes and Blaine snuck in to sit by him. He talked as Principal Figgins and the school nurse checked on everyone. He only stopped talking when the paramedics arrived for Karofsky and Sam.

"I should go with him," he told Mr. Schue.

"The police will want to take your statement," Mr. Figgins interrupted. "It's best you stay here for the moment."

"But, Sam," Kurt tried to stand.

Mercedes put out a hand to stop him. "I'll go," she volunteered.

"I…Thank you, 'Cedes." He dropped his head then, a little ashamed of the gulf still dividing them. "Will you call if anything happens?"

"Of course." She smiled down at him.

"You'll need my number," he patted down his pockets for pen and paper.

"I still have it," Mercedes assured him.

"Thanks," Kurt told her, the tears beginning anew.

"I'll call you tonight, 'kay?"

"Yes," he promised. She waved, then followed Sam's stretcher out into the hallway.

Mr. Schue caught his attention again. "You were saying, Kurt?"

Blaine nudged his shoulder with a smile and caught his hand, twining the two together. Kurt smiled and squeezed back. "Where was I?"


	15. Chapter 15

"I'll be home late," Blaine told his dad. He watched as Kurt clung tightly to his satchel strap. They were standing in the parking lot, waiting for Blaine's dad to give the okay. He did and Blaine slid the phone back in bag. "We are good to go, my friend," he beamed.

It was nearly dark. All afternoon they had been talking to teachers, principals, police officers, and nurses. A paramedic had splinted Kurt's arm, but made him promise to see his family doctor in the morning. The principal had suspended Sam, Kurt, and Karofsky for fighting. He had also muttered something about an expulsion hearing, but only after Mr. Schue had threatened to go to the newspapers. Blaine kinda loved Mr. Schue right now. He was his second favorite person.

"You sure you want to do this?"

"Yes," Kurt nodded. "I don't have school for the rest of the week. I might as well do something fun." Kurt paused for effect. "You really call yourselves the Warblers?"

"You'll love the guys. We do a wicked version of _When I Get You Alone_." Blaine spun on his heels and did a little shimmy.

"As long as it isn't from _Grease_, we should be fine."

"What's wrong with _Grease_?" Blaine couldn't help himself. He started crooning to Kurt, "I got chills. They're multiplying. And I'm losing control," he dropped to the ground and started convulsing.

"Get up, you dork."

"Hey Kurt?"

"Yeah?" Kurt had his back to him, eyeing the school, and couldn't see the smile on Blaine's face.

"Grease is the word, that you heard, that you heard," he told him.

Kurt laughingly told him to shut up. "Let's go already." Kurt tossed the keys to Blaine and they climbed into Kurt's car.

"What time is your thing tomorrow?" Blaine asked as he adjusted the seat and mirrors.

Kurt smiled when Blaine had to move the seat up. "The hearing isn't until eleven and Mrs. Evans said we couldn't visit Sam until after then, anyway, so we have plenty of time."

"You're really going to live with Mr. Schue?" Blaine cranked the key in the ignition.

"Yeah. We're going to give it a try."

"Cool." Blaine very carefully backed the car out. Instead of turning towards the exit, however, he turned to drive past the school.

"Blaine. Wrong way?" Kurt pointed back the way they had come.

"I just need to do something," Blaine explained. He parked the car facing the front doors and climbed out. Kurt made a face at him from the passenger seat, but Blaine ignored it.

Blaine glared at the double-doors with his best haute stare. "I'll be back," he told them. He gave a sloppy salute, then jumped back in the car.

"Let's rock and roll," he crowed. He jerked the wheel to the right and drove out of the parking lot. "You're going to love Dalton," he promised Kurt. "I can't wait to show you everything."

Kurt just hummed his agreement and took over the radio.

Blaine glanced over at Kurt, an idea coalescing. "How do you feel about Katy Perry?" he asked.

He already had the perfect song in mind.


End file.
